


too high (can't come down)

by danfanciesphil (thejigsawtimess)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Cheating, Enemies to Lovers, Hotels, Humor, M/M, Mountains, Nobility, Sharing a Bed, Skiing, Slow Burn, Snow, Switzerland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 126,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejigsawtimess/pseuds/danfanciesphil
Summary: Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to my new chaptered phanfic, which I shall be updating weekly if possible. I think it’s going to be every Friday, although this may change according to my unpredictable schedule. I hope you enjoy!

The sheer craziness of Dan’s plan doesn’t fully sink in until he’s suspended 7,000 feet up the side of a mountain, inside a violently rocking cable car in the midst of a blizzard so thick that the glass windows are opaque white. Dan’s tour guide, Kaspar, is a true Swiss native; he’s sat on the one wooden bench inside this small capsule, animatedly jabbing at a game on his mobile phone. Kaspar’s utter indifference to the snowstorm is probably the only reason Dan isn’t screaming in fear right now.

“Is it much further?” Dan manages to squeak.

He grips the handlebar running around the interior, knuckles white. His other hand is clasped around the handle of his suitcase, which is desperately trying to escape and skid off across the floor.

“Not far,” Kaspar replies distractedly. He glances up at Dan from his phone; whatever he sees in Dan’s expression - pure terror, probably - is enough to make him put the phone away and pat the space beside him on the bench. His life in Kaspar’s hands, Dan goes to him obediently, swaying with the violent rocking and then falling onto the bench. “Do not fret little Dan,” Kaspar says, thumping him on the back with a wide, cheery smile. “You will not be needing to come back down for many more weeks!”

If this is supposed to calm him, Dan is not convinced that the Swiss are a compassionate bunch. Kaspar is as chipper as his orange, puffy boiler suit might suggest. He also has a purple and yellow bobble hat pulled over a mess of blondish curls and whiskers. Dan has tried to bundle up, having been well aware that the Alps are famously a little on the chilly side, but Kaspar’s outfit is still far superior. Dan imagines Kaspar is toasty warm, whilst Dan’s hands are on the verge of falling off his wrists inside of their gloves.

“Is there another way up?” Dan asks. Or down, more specifically.

“Ya,” Kaspar replies, nodding. “The small airport in town rents out private planes. But they are not cheap, little Dan! Wait for your first paycheque!”

‘Little Dan’ is a baffling nickname considering Dan is six foot, easily, but he chooses not to point this out, assuming Kaspar has his reasons. “Maybe I could hitch a ride with some rich guest or other, next time,” he says, gripping the edge of the bench. 

Kaspar laughs heartily, his whole body shaking with it, so that the cable car shudders alarmingly. “What guests?”

*

After a very unpleasant experience of actually  _jumping_  from the cable car doorway -  _"I cannot stop today, little Dan! I am needed back at the base. You will be fine, just bend your knees as you land, ya?”_  - Dan dusts the worst of the snow from his trousers and suitcase, then waves to Kaspar, who leans heart-stoppingly far out of the door to call goodbye. Dan watches morosely as the cable car continues on towards its turning point, then judders slowly back down into the blizzard.

Somewhat reluctantly, he turns to find himself in front of what looks like an enormous, luxury log cabin, if it could house fifteen people. There’s a big balcony running across the entire width of the upper story, decked with tables and chairs. The building is made from an umber wood, which stands out vividly against the pure white snow caking its roof and eaves. There’s a sign, partially obscured by the snow, that reads ‘The Secret of the Alps’, which is the only indication that Dan is actually in the right place. No other options available now, Dan trudges through the calf-deep snow to the front door; he does not have the energy right now to admire the picturesque scene this little building makes, nestled into the side of the mountain, nor the spectacular view it faces, which Dan doesn’t let himself turn to admire just yet.

The moment he pushes the heavy door open and steps inside, Dan is engulfed in a pulse of delicious, thick warmth. It’s so glorious that he almost tears up, but thankfully restrains himself, and just rubs his hands together, appreciating. He stands still under the heater for a moment, slowly feeling the cold dripping from him, quite literally it turns out, as he notes the puddle forming at his feet.

“Welcome!” a comfortingly British voice says from nearby. Stood behind a desk ahead of him is a short, buxom woman wearing a fitted charcoal suit jacket and matching skirt. She’s in her mid-thirties, maybe, with dark hair tied up in a tight bun, and a short, severe fringe. Everything about her screams neatness and professionalism, which is a little jarring, in the middle of nowhere as they are. Before Dan can introduce himself, she marches over to him and grabs one of his hands. “Dan Howell, I presume? I’m Mona Kemp, the manager of the hotel. We’ve spoken via email, of course.”

Dan nods, finding it all of a sudden quite difficult to catch his breath, perhaps partly due to the altitude. “Yeah, of course. Great to meet you at last.”

Her hand is ringless and smooth, very pleasant to grip. Having been deprived of human contact for a few days now, Dan finds it a little tricky to make himself let go. Thankfully, she either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. “You must be absolutely exhausted,” Mona says, taking his suitcase from him. “It’s late, so I thought we’d start with the basics tomorrow morning, let you get a good night’s rest. Does that sound alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dan says, glad that he’ll have an opportunity to recover from his harrowing journey before setting to work. “Thank you.”

She’s already wheeling his case along the wooden floor towards a set of floating stairs, leading up to a second storey, which is partly visible as a mezzanine that juts over the front desk. She stops at the base of the stairs, smiling briskly at Dan as she hands the case back to him. Mona digs into her jacket pocket and draws out a key, which she then drops into his hand.

“You’re right at the top, I’m afraid. There’s only three floors, but as I’m sure you’ll find out, heaving bags up three flights of stairs like these,” she kicks at the floating step nearest to her with her pointed boot, “is a bugger.”

“Right,” Dan says, forcing a smile. “Probably best to start practicing then.”

“Love the enthusiasm, Dan,” Mona says, returning the smile. “I’ve asked Louise, our chef, to make you some tomato soup and a grilled cheese. I’ll bring it up to you in about an hour, shall I?”

At the mere mention of something so delicious, Dan’s stomach rumbles, making Mona laugh. Dan laughs too, embarrassed. “That would be fantastic, thank you.”

“Well, Dan,” Mona sticks out her hand for the second time, and Dan takes it greedily. “It’s a pleasure to have you. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, and that you’ll find your way quickly. We run a small but high-quality establishment. It’s a quiet job, but a pleasant one, particularly if you’re more of an introverted type.”

“I definitely am,” Dan assures her. “I think I might be the perfect fit.”

Mona smiles broadly and removes her hand from Dan’s. “Excellent. Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be here at the desk.”

“Thank you, Mona,” Dan says, trying to load the words with the gratitude he feels. He looks upwards, unsure. “Just... up the stairs?”

“Just keep climbing until you can’t get any higher. You won’t miss it,” Mona replies briskly, already back behind the desk. 

Dan nods, pocketing his key, and bends to lift his case. It turns out that Mona was not lying about what a bitch it is to drag a heavy case up three flights of stairs that have huge gaps between them. Dan trips at least ten times, and bruises his shins, but eventually he makes it to the top floor. There are only two rooms up here - seven and eight. Dan’s key says seven, so he pays no attention to the door next to it, and lets himself in.

It’s a bigger room than he’d been expecting, but decorated pretty much exactly how he imagined it would be. Wood-panelled walls, a double bed with a dark blue duvet and a thick grey quilt, an electric heater, a chest of drawers, and a tiny en-suite with just enough room for a toilet, sink and bath. There’s a vase of plastic flowers on the bedside table, along with a lamp, fitted with a navy lampshade to match the bed.

Dan closes the door behind him, shucks off his coat, then pulls off his gloves and his jumper, all of which fall to his feet. He sits down on the bed, takes a deep breath of thin, mountain air, and bursts into tears.

*

The daylight in the mountains is a blinding, fierce sort that Dan has not experienced before. It gleams off the acres of snow draped over the peaks, burrowing into Dan’s room through the thin slices between his curtains, and waking him instantly. He set an alarm before he went to bed, but it’s been rendered redundant now. He lies in the warmth for a few minutes, then forces himself to emerge, trudging into the bathroom. He showers, cleans his teeth, then goes to unzip his suitcase, still packed from the day before. He’d slept in the clothes he arrived in, which was undoubtedly a bad idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to root around for his pyjamas, exhausted and drained as he’d been after a long, tearful evening. 

As he buttons his white shirt - the one his mum bought for him just before he left in what might be one of her five or so selfless acts throughout motherhood - he stares out of his window at the dazzling view of the mountain, utterly hypnotised. The troughs and peaks of the slopes, iced in pearlescent white, are entirely unblemished. 

Actually...  _almost_  entirely. 

As Dan’s eyes gradually adjust to the brightness, he begins to notice a small blip in the landscape; a tiny, scarlet fly in the ointment of the picturesque view. He squints, fingers stilling on the shirt buttons as the figure moves steadily towards the horizon, leaving a faint trail of snow prints in its wake.

Startling him away from the window, Dan’s alarm trills, and he goes to switch it off, forgetting the mystery figure. He pulls on a pair of trousers, some thick grey socks, and boots. With a final, cursory glance in the bathroom mirror, Dan gathers himself as best he can, and heads out of the room. He descends the first set of stairs to the floor where all the other guests’ rooms are, then down another flight of stairs into the mezzanine area. Dan had paid little attention as he passed through it last night, but now he sees this area has been made into a cosy seating space, with a big fireplace, several sofas, armchairs, and a few tables and chairs dotted about. There’s a big television in one corner, and he spots some tall wooden shelves crammed with board games and books, and a large basket full of various patterned blankets, above which a sign reads: ‘help yourself!’

To Dan’s right are a set of double doors, nestled in the centre of some enormous floor to ceiling windows. Beyond the glass is a balcony, the one he’d seen from outside, long and wide, and dotted with tables and chairs. Even from here, just staring through the window, Dan can see that the view beyond the balcony is divine. It looks out onto the same expanse of brilliant whiteness that he can see from his own room’s window. Just then, Mona appears at the top of the stairs leading up from the lobby, a big, dark puffy coat zipped around her.  

“Oh! Dan, you’re up, fabulous.” 

She bustles past him, wrenching open a door hidden in the wood-panelled wall, which reveals a small cupboard. From within, she takes out some checkered tablecloths and a big wicker basket, the latter of which she shoves into Dan’s hands, and beckons for him to follow her. The box is very heavy, Dan quickly finds, but he ambles along behind Mona as best he can as she marches towards the balcony doors. The scent of something delicious catches in his nostrils as he goes, and he breathes in deeply, stomach gurgling. Noticing the sound, Mona looks over her shoulder, smiling knowingly.

“I have the same reaction to Louise’s cooking,” she says, then points to what is not, apparently, simply a lifelike painting of an industrial kitchen as Dan had initially thought. What it actually is, he now understands, is a serving hatch - a square cut out of the wall separating the kitchen from the mezzanine area to make it easier for food items to be passed back and forth. Beyond the hatch, in the kitchen, a blonde woman in a white chef’s smock and hat dances back and forth between the various pans sizzling on the stove. “She’s a wonder,” Mona says. “Caters for the hotel entirely on her own. Three meals a day. Guests and staff.”  

“Wow,” Dan says, eyes widening as he steps through the balcony door Mona holds for him. “Is it normal to have just one person do all that?”

“We’re a small business, Dan,” Mona says as if this is enough of an answer, and follows him out. The moment he’s out of the pleasant, close warmth of the hotel’s interior, Dan is plunged into an icy stream of frigid mountain air. Though the day is still, a biting chill nips at his exposed fingers, his neck and face. He nearly drops the basket with the shock of it. “There may not be many of us, but we all play our part, and we manage fine.”

Dan is focusing too hard on not shivering so violently he drops the basket to respond with actual words.

Again, Mona chuckles at him. “We’re out of the wind here thanks to the positions of the peaks, but it still gets damn cold. You might want to think about more layers in future.”

Dan tries not to let his teeth chatter as he asks, “what are we out here for?”

“Setting up for breakfast,” Mona replies, already flinging the checkered tablecloths onto the tables.

“We’re serving breakfast outside?”

“Of course,” Mona says, then turns to flip open the lid of the basket in Dan’s hands, which Dan now understands is full of crockery and cutlery - hence the weight. She pulls out some plastic clips to secure the tablecloths. “One of our best attractions is our ‘breakfast with a view’. We pop the heaters on, of course, and there are blankets if anyone gets too chilly.”

“Oh,” Dan says, glancing at the few tall electric heaters between the tables, and feeling stupid. “Right, I see.”

“Don’t worry,” Mona says with a sympathetic smile. “You’ll get used to things. Start putting the plates out? Two per table.”

Dan smiles back, grateful for her kind, swift demeanour, and focuses on his given task, moving speedily to set each of the six tables. They lay out napkins, plates, mugs and cutlery, and by the time they’re finished, Dan no longer feels as cold. Mona switches on the heaters one by one, complimenting Dan on how diligently he’s getting on with things, and how it took her half the time it normally does to set up out here with his help.

Dan thanks her awkwardly, not really sure why simply doing his job requires praise, and lets his eyes wander to the view once more; idly, Dan remembers that distant crimson figure from this morning.

“Is it safe for people to ski up here?” Dan finds himself asking. “I didn’t read about any ski runs or anything.”

“No, no,” Mona says, her head snapping sharply from side to side as she straightens the cutlery. “Skiing or snowboarding is not a good idea up here. We’re tucked away, so not many people have properly explored the area. It’s all rather treacherous unless you know what you’re doing, so don’t go wandering off on your own. You can stress that to guests if they ask you, as well.”

The crimson mystery-person is on the tip of Dan’s tongue, but it occurs to him that it may well have been a sleepy mirage, brought on by the shock of the sudden change of lifestyle Dan has hurled himself into without warning. He’ll wait for a follow-up sighting before giving any cause for Mona to call up mountain rescue for an imaginary extreme-sports-junkie.

“So, what time do we serve breakfast?” Dan asks instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions count

After Dan and Mona have served breakfast to the two - yes, just two - couples staying at the hotel, they clear everything away, leaving the tablecloths out for the lunch service in a few hours. As they are pretty much cut off from civilisation up here, guests are served three meals a day, along with optional extra nibbles sent to their rooms upon request. It takes Dan a full day of quietly observing, but he eventually comes to understand that The Secret of the Alps is not a place people come for adventure, or entertainment.

The hotel is instead a serene, atmospheric getaway, isolated high up in the scenic Swiss Alps, away from the stresses of civilisation. People come here not for planned activities, but to spend time alone, or with each other, reading books by the fire, playing scrabble, or taking the occasional guided walk around the safe paths of the mountain. These walks are led by Kaspar, who can be called up a day in advance. There’s a jacuzzi and sauna outside at the back of the hotel for guests to enjoy, a small gym, and a lounge stocked with a wide range of books and board games as Dan has seen. Louise is available for cooking classes if guests are interested, and each night Mona puts on a film for the guests in the mezzanine area; Louise makes buttery popcorn and Bailey’s hot chocolate for everyone, and if people are feeling social, sometimes they loiter there well into the night, chatting.

It’s probably not what Dan would choose for a holiday, but he understands the appeal. If you were some corporate lawyer-type drowning in fast-paced city life, it would be tempting to come somewhere remote and distant, where the WiFi is shocking enough that nobody can really contact you.

“So, for this week, I’m just going to have you follow me around, like you have been today,” Mona explains to Dan in a hushed voice. His shift is almost over, and the evening film is just starting for the guests. She and Dan are at the back of the mezzanine lounge, stood next to the serving hatch, through which Louise is leaning, chin in her hand as she watches the opening credits roll. “That way you’ll get used to the routine.”

“Sounds good,” Dan says. 

He met Louise earlier, as he brought through the dirty plates after dinner, and though their exchange was only brief, he feels that she’s the type of dry, sarcastic person he could eventually be friends with. 

“You say that, but Mona’s a tyrant,” Louise mutters, and Mona shoots her a stern look. “If you need a break from the whip-cracking, come find me. I’ll keep you caffeinated, it’ll make the week go faster.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Mona says pointedly, “things don’t differ much day-to-day here, as you’ll come to learn.” Louise makes a grunting sound of assent. “By the end of the week, I reckon you’ll have the routine down, and then we can start giving you some more independence. Manning reception on your own, that kind of thing.”

“Right,” Dan says, stifling a yawn. “Cool.”

“I think Dan might be about to fall asleep on his feet,” Louise says amusedly, making Dan straighten up.

“N-no, I’m awake,” he says hurriedly. “Sorry, I’m just not used to the long days yet, and it’s dark in here-”

Mona laughs, then pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Dan. This job can be boring and somehow exhausting at once. You can call it a night, I’ll see you bright and early.”

Dan smiles at her gratefully, then yelps as Louise reaches out and pinches his arm. Two of the guests watching the movie turn around at the high-pitched squeal, making Louise giggle.

“Night, Dan.”

“Night,” he says, and then scurries towards the stairs.

By the time he gets to the top floor his knees are about to give way; he pauses in the hallway, digging in his pocket for his room key, more than ready for this day to be over. It hasn’t been  _awful_ , just long and strenuous. As he pulls out the key, he notices a sliver of yellow light beneath the door of room eight, the one beside his. For a long moment, Dan stares at this light, his overtired brain struggling to work out what it could mean. Mona mentioned that she sleeps on the ground floor, in a room attached to the office. Louise and all of the other guests are still downstairs watching the film, so it can’t be any of them, unless one of them inexplicably left their light on.

Too tired to consider this further, Dan lets himself into his own room, deciding he’ll just ask Mona about it tomorrow. Once again, he barely makes it to the bed - though this time he does manage to pull on pyjamas - before curling up in the thick covers and letting the tears fall.

He’s well into becoming a gross mess - nose running heavily, eyes piggy and sore - when he hears something odd enough to make him pause. A waft of soft, calming notes, shaping a sweet melody, filtering into his room through the wall behind his bed. He sits up against the pillows, ears straining, his face damp. He’s so puzzled by the music that he forgets why he’s crying, and just listens. In the stillness of the night, the music is the sole sound, worming its way beneath Dan’s skin, and settling into his weary bones.

He has just enough wakefulness left in his brain to wonder how classical music could be playing at a range close enough for him to hear right now, considering everyone else is supposedly downstairs watching  _Ocean’s Eleven_. Before he can think of any answer, however, he is slipping down into the mattress, and then right through it, until he’s floating into a sea of dream.

*

It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and Dan’s second day is winding down. He is at the front desk, which he's beginning to recognise as his base camp for the times of day when he’s without pressing tasks - which is often. Mona’s base camp is the office behind the reception desk, where she does scary managerial business like handling the accounts and speaking to investors. 

At the moment Mona is upstairs in the kitchen, asking Louise to make she and Dan something to eat, as the dinner rush is over now. Just as Dan is about to give in and dig in his pocket for his phone to alleviate the boredom, he hears the back door that leads to the jacuzzi and sauna opening. The door is around the corner from the reception desk, hidden from Dan’s view, but he straightens in his seat nonetheless, preparing to make polite small talk with one of the guests.

To his total astonishment, a man walks into the lobby that he has never seen before. He’s wearing one of the robes left for guests in each room, as well as the complimentary slippers. The robe is loosely tied around his waist, as if it might undo itself any moment, and reveal the long, toned, naked body beneath. His black hair is wet, dripping to his shoulders. As he passes the desk, he aims a vague smile at what he clearly assumes will be Mona, as when he sees Dan sat there, he does a double take.

Fixed in place by two inhumanly blue eyes, Dan cannot find a single word to utter. This man is an apparition, serene and impossible. How is he here? Dan has met all of the guests and staff. Mona would surely have told him if there were anyone else by this point. They are up the side of a mountain, with no means of being reached save for a private plane or a death-defying cable car ride, so he can’t be an intruder, yet Dan cannot think of another explanation. He thinks of shouting for Mona, but still he cannot summon his voice.

“Hi,” the man says, half-mumbled.

He doesn’t stop walking, so Dan has no chance to respond even if he could, and then the man is climbing the stairs to the mezzanine, and disappearing out of sight. Ten minutes later, when Mona reappears, Dan explains to her what just happened in a rush, the words spilling out as if whatever had stoppered them up before has been violently uncorked at her reappearance.

“Ah, yes,” Mona says, clearing her throat. She hands him a bowl of what looks like chilli, with a slice of crusty bread. “That’s Mr Novokoric,” she says. “He’s our… special guest. Don’t concern yourself with him right now.”

“He’s a guest?”

Mona hesitates. “Yes.”

“He didn’t come for breakfast,” Dan points out, bewildered. “Or lunch, or dinner.”

“Mr Novokoric has his meals in his room,” Mona says briskly, fidgeting with obvious discomfort. “When he eats at all, that is,” she mutters, lower. “I will explain about all that later, Dan,” she promises. “For now, let’s just focus on the main aspects of the job, getting your routine in place...”

She rambles on about the responsibilities he’s still getting to terms with, and he half-listens, unable to stop the hundreds of questions about this mysterious ‘other’ guest from swooshing around in his mind. With a lot of effort, and mostly because he feels his and Mona’s professional relationship is still in its infancy, he swallows his curiosity down with a spoonful of piping hot chilli.

*

The following morning, Dan’s third working at The Secret of the Alps, he is up even earlier than usual. He’d gotten more sleep than his previous two nights, thanks to the music that again drifted through the wall to staunch his free-flowing tears. 

The light filtering through the window is still too startling to ignore however, so he abandons any attempt at staying in bed, and dresses quickly, hoping to impress Mona with his work ethic by getting an extra early start. Sure enough, he’s the first one to reach the front desk, though he can hear Mona in her room at the back of the office shuffling around - perhaps gluing her unmoving bun in position with industrial strength adhesive. Whatever she’s up to, Dan knows he doesn’t have long before she emerges, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so he sets himself up at the desk and attempts to look productive. As he skims through the hotel brochure, scanning photos of happy families in bobble-hats, and wine-flushed couples in front of log fires, his mind wanders back down the mountain, to his old life - his real life - which lurks menacingly below him, claws outstretched, ready to snatch him back the moment he peeks over the precipice.

He hears vague footsteps on the stairs, and assumes it must be Louise, as she’s the only other person he could conceive might be up this early. He and Louise have struck up an instant colloquial rapport which he’s grateful for, even in the few days he’s been here, so Dan says, without looking up, “unngh, need caffeine, Lou. I’ll tip my head back and you just pour the coffee down my throat, kay?”

He expects, of course, one of Louise’s snarky yet fond comebacks, probably focused on how inadvertently sexual that request sounded. He waits for the cut of her steel tongue, but it doesn’t come.  Dan looks up, and meets the two vibrant blue eyes he remembers from yesterday evening, over which two dark eyebrows are arched high on a pale, exposed forehead. At once, Dan flushes, shutting the brochure with a slap, and sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Oh, God, sorry, I thought you were someone else. Um, good morning-” Dan struggles to recall the name Mona had given this man last night - Novak? Novorak? He’s not sure. “...Sir.” Best to be on the safe side. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

The blue-eyed man doesn’t pause, crossing the lobby towards the door, but he does shake his head slightly in response to Dan’s question. He’s a startling thing to behold so early in the morning. His shock of onyx hair contrasts against the scarlet snow-jacket he’s wearing. It takes Dan a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sheer vibrancy of him, and an even longer moment to realise that tucked beneath his arm are two cherry-red skis.

 _Skiing and snowboarding is not a good idea up here_ , Mona’s voice echoes in his head.  _The mountain is treacherous and unpredictable, so stress that to guests..._

Dan jumps to his feet at once, heart already in his throat as he watches the man nearing the front door, apparently about to walk outside and strap those skis to his feet, then most likely hurl himself to his untimely death.

“Oh, S-Sir, hold on,” Dan calls out, jogging out from the desk and over towards the man, who has turned to him with such an expression of astonishment that it’s as if Dan had begun to perform a striptease right in the middle of the lobby. “S-sorry,” Dan says, stepping towards him more cautiously now, “but I’m afraid you’re not allowed to ski here.”

One of those dark eyebrows arches upwards again. “Excuse me?”

“It’s… not permitted for guests to ski,” Dan says hurriedly; he can feel a steady blossoming of burst capillaries in either cheek. “The mountain is, um,” what did Mona say? “...treacherous. You could be hurt.”

A long moment passes, during which time Dan begins to wonder if maybe he should repeat himself, slower, as perhaps this man doesn’t understand English very well.

“What’s your name?” the man asks eventually, in the sort of voice Dan recognises from all the times he’s dealt with petulant, ‘I-want-to-speak-to-the-manager’ type middle-aged women in the retail jobs he’s worked.

“Dan,” he replies, swallowing.

“I assume you’re the new concierge, Dan?”

“Well… yes.”

“Right.” The man hitches his skis up into the crook of his arm. “I suggest that next time you decide you have any right to come up and reprimand me, that you consult with your boss before making a fool of yourself.”

He says this in such a calm monotone that it takes Dan a few seconds to realise how rudely he’s just been spoken to. He blushes again, absurdly. “I-I’m really very sorry, Sir, but I can’t allow you to leave the hotel with those skis.”

The man fixes him with a glare that would put the Real Housewives to shame. “And what is it that you’re going to do to stop me, Dan?”

“Well… I’ll, um-”

Dan is saved from finishing this sentence by the sound of Mona’s kitten heels tapping hurriedly across the wooden floor. As she gets closer, Dan can hear that she is muttering “oh, dear god” repeatedly under her breath. Relieved that he is no longer on his own in this situation, Dan takes a subtle step backwards from the hostile guest. He averts his gaze from those hard, cold blue eyes as he waits for Mona to assert her prim, managerial dominance over this man, and confiscate his forbidden sports equipment.

“I am  _so_  sorry Mr Novokoric,” she blurts, much to Dan’s horror. “Please forgive Dan, he only arrived yesterday and isn’t yet aware of your special circumstances.”

Mr Novokoric huffs an impatient sigh, but nods tightly. “Might I recommend offering treats to help him learn faster.”

“Very funny, Mr Novokoric,” Mona says with a polite, false-sounding laugh. Dan’s cheeks are now rivalling the man’s jacket, he’s certain. Surely he can’t have just implied Dan were a  _dog_ , and Mona is simply  _laughing_. To Dan’s abject bafflement, she then seems to actually give a small bow of her head. Where is his stern, no-nonsense, manageress in shining armour? This is not the same woman he recognises from the last two days. “We’ll have Dan up to speed in no time. This won’t happen again.”

Mr Novokoric nods again, sliding a final, disapproving look towards Dan for good measure before muttering something like ‘alright then’, and slipping out of the door. As soon as Dan is relatively sure the man is out of earshot, he turns to Mona, scandalised.

“Please explain to me what just happened,” he says, as calmly as he can manage given that he is utterly seething. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Mona says, then considers this. “Well, yes, but you weren’t to know. It’s my fault, I was trying to ease you in, but I should have discussed Mr Novokoric’s special case sooner. I apologise for that. I didn’t think you’d have the chance to speak to him without me being there.”

Dan waits for her to continue, but she simply turns away, strolling determinedly back towards the desk, and nimbly side-stepping the entire issue. “Well, I would appreciate being filled in now,” Dan says, hot on her heels. “I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of one of Mr Nobby-whatsit’s glacial stares again any time soon.”

Mona sighs, smoothing down the non-existent stray hairs from her high bun. “All right,” she says after a moment of deliberation. She gestures for him to follow her, and moves towards the stairs up to the mezzanine. “Come up and have some breakfast. We can discuss it - briefly - as we eat.”

For some reason, Dan’s heart is fluttering in his chest. He tries to imagine what possible secrets are about to be revealed to him surrounding this mysterious, moody ski-enthusiast. Perhaps Mr Novo-whatever is some sort of secret agent, using his skis to swoop from mission to mission. Or perhaps he’s a mentally-unstable ex-patient of some nearby facility that could no longer afford to keep him due to his hostile nature.

He’s so caught up in these various possibilities that he doesn’t realise he’s followed Mona into the kitchen until Louise is pushing a bowl of porridge into his hands. The letter ‘D’ is drizzled on top in syrup, and there are blueberries scattered across the surface.

“Oh, wow,” he says, chuffed. He aims a grateful smile at Louise. “D for Dan?”

She cocks her head to one side, frowning. “Huh. Didn’t think of that. I was going for Dick-brain.”

Dan snorts, but digs straight in; it’s thick, warm and sweet. “Orgasmic as usual, Lou. Got any coffee to go with it?”

“It’s blueberry, honey and cinnamon,” Louise tells him enthusiastically, her front two gap-teeth bared. She’s already at the coffee machine, turning vials and spurting steam without needing to look at what she’s doing. “Is it the best porridge you’ve ever had?”

He considers this for a moment, then bites down on a blueberry, which bursts out a tangy, tart flavour that mixes so deliciously with the sweet syrup, that Dan actually moans. “Oh, hands down.”

Pleased with this response, Louise makes his coffee double strength, which Dan notices, and hopes Mona doesn’t. “I like this one, Mo,” Louise calls over the hissing of steam as she makes Mona a cappuccino. “Don’t go scaring him off like you did the last one.”

Dan wonders if the failure and possible trauma of his predecessor should alarm him, but finds that he’s too busy enjoying the blissful experience of Louise’s porridge to really care. Besides, he’s already here now, has already given up his life back in England to do this; it’s going to have to be something really stupendously terrifying to chase him back to the ruins of what he left behind.

“I did not scare that little nitwit off,” Mona says sniffily. “She was far too sensitive. I only told her she couldn’t fold a towel to save her life. Which is not true of Dan, so it’s all fine.”

“Yeah yeah,” Louise says, pouring foam. She walks over and hands the cappuccino to Mona, giving her a look. “Just don’t hurl him into the deep end without a life raft.”

“Well I  _was_  trying to ease him in,” Mona says with a heavy sigh. She blows on the coffee, then plucks a teaspoon from nearby and scoops some froth into her mouth. “But I took my eye off him for two seconds and he went squaring up to the beast.”

Louise makes a face halfway between a grimace and a grin, turning to Dan. “So, you’ve met His Lordship, then?”

Dan snorts into his near-empty bowl. “Is that what you call him? He does act as if he’s Royalty.” Mona and Louise exchange a look so loaded with unspoken  _somethings_  that Dan actually pauses, spoon of porridge halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Louise chuckles, seemingly to herself, and turns to uncover what looks like a delicious homemade loaf of bread, which she immediately begins sawing into thick slices for the guest breakfast. Dan turns to Mona, sensing that Louise is not going to be the forthcoming one here. Mona’s fidgeting, which seems unusual for her, not that Dan is the best judge given that he’s only known her forty-eight hours.

“Dan,” she says eventually, seeming to navigate some internal minefield of appropriate phrasing. “I know we’ve only just met, but there’s something I need to ask of you.”

Dan nods slowly, aware that Louise is watching him, though she’s trying very hard to pretend she’s focused solely on the bread. “Okay,” he says warily.

“I understand it’s a bit early to ask you to commit, but… do you think you’d be interested in permanently accepting this job?”

“Well… yes,” Dan says. Briefly, he thinks of his final discussion with his father, the gist of which had been  _‘if you do something as stupid and reckless as pissing off to waste your time up the top of a snowy hill, I’ll disown you’_. Even that lovely parting sentiment hadn’t managed to dissuade Dan from coming here though, so he supposes he must really be serious about his decision to do this. “I’m not going to back out, if that’s what you mean.”

Mona casts a brief, relieved look in Louise’s direction, which is happily returned. “That’s good. That’s very good to hear, Dan. Okay then,” she says, placing her cup of coffee down carefully in order to clasp her hands together at her waist. “What I need to ask you, in that case, is for your total discretion. I need your word, unwaveringly, to keep quiet about a certain matter.”

“Is this about Mr Novocaine?”

Louise’s bark of laughter is shrill and high. “At last! I have someone on my level of comedic talent to witticise with. It’s been an arduous few years attempting to engage Mo in banter. No offense.”

Rolling her eyes a bit, Mona corrects Dan, “Mr  _Novokoric_. And yes, it’s about him. I’m assuming, from your reaction earlier this morning, that you don’t recognise him?”

“Er… no.”

Mona clears her throat, nodding. “And have you ever heard of Sir Nikolai Novokoric of Swtizerland?”

Some distant bell rings in the back of Dan’s mind. He tries to dredge up the memory that accompanies it, wrinkling his nose. “Is he that party-Prince that’s always in all the papers? The heir of some nobleman’s fortune or something?”

“He’s not a Prince, but he is connected to the Swiss monarchy,” Mona replies carefully. “And yes, his exploits are often splashed across international entertainment news.”

Not being the sort of person to indulge in celebrity gossip, Dan has only a vague sense of Sir Nikolai, but his general impression of the man is that he’s a spoiled, disgustingly rich little brat, squandering his inherited fortune on hundred-thousand euro bottles of champagne to fuel his obscene sex parties in exotic locations.

“I don’t really follow him,” Dan says with a shrug. He’s already bored just thinking about the vapid excuse for a man. He sees no reason why he should be under discussion, aside from the fact he’s apparently Swiss, and they’re currently atop a Swiss mountain. “Why’d you bring him up?”

“You may or may not be aware that Sir Nikolai’s most recent scandal was to come out as publicly bisexual,” Mona says, checking her watch and speeding up the tempo of her explanation. “And when the scandal of this statement proved to be virtually non-existent-”

“Switzerland’s rather blasé about that sort of thing,” Louise butts in, cheerily. “Sexualities and whatnot. People just sort of get on with it, round here. Doesn’t matter whose pants you’ve got your hand down.”

“-he  _then_  decided,” Mona continues, aiming a sharp look at Louise, “to hype up the scandal by eloping with a male student he met during a brief stint at a British university.”

Mona’s expression is carefully neutral, but from her rigid stance and the way her lips purse around the words, it’s more than clear what she thinks of this impulsive, erratic behaviour.

“Elope?” Dan asks, mildly intrigued. He’d been under the impression that this rich playboy was a renowned perpetual-bachelor. “So he’s married now?”

“Honestly, Dan,” Louise says with a tinkling laugh. “Don’t know how you could’ve missed it! When the media found out he’d run off and wedded some nobody from Manchester they had a field day! Even I heard about it, all the way up here, where the newspapers are only delivered once a week, and that’s if Kaspar even remembers to bring them.”

“Like I said,” Dan says uncomfortably. “I don’t really follow that stuff.”

“Well, now might be the time to catch yourself up to speed,” Mona says, one eyebrow raised as she surveys him, unimpressed. “As the gentleman you just attempted to accost in our lobby is Sir Nikolai’s recent groom, and therefore a distant member of the Royal family.”

Dan’s face pales, and he places the empty bowl in his hands down, feeling suddenly nauseous. “He… _that guy_?”

Louise laughs, radiant and bright, bouncing off the chrome surfaces of the kitchen. Dan tries to wrap his head around the new information, feeling de-stabled. He supposes that he understands the physical appeal of the man he met just now, but surely even Sir Nikolai would be put off by the resting bitch-face, or the general rudeness. Dan expects that young men like Sir Nikolai are used to having people fawn over them; he can’t imagine Mr NovaScotia-or-whatever doing anything akin to fawning.

When Dan focuses back on Mona, she’s fighting an amused smile. “Mr Novokoric is actually quite sweet, I’ve found. But he does have a rather… spiky set of barriers up, until you get to know him.”

Dan snorts quietly, thinking privately that he would have phrased it a little differently. Possibly he would have adopted Louise’s imaginative term ‘dick-brain’. In no circumstance can Dan ever imagine being as rude to customer service staff as that man had been to him earlier. Having worked in retail and hospitality all his life, Dan is painfully aware of how shit it is to deal with irate customers; he feels that working those jobs at least once should be a rite of passage for anyone to go through, so that they can learn how to be decent human beings. He’d bet that Mr Nobby-ski-head has never set foot on the other side of the till. Like his husband, he’s probably an elitist twat, privately educated and living off his parents’ money.

“If you say so,” Dan mutters. “You said he was a permanent guest?”

Mona nods, glancing at her watch; they’ve been discussing this for too long for her liking, evidently. “More or less, yes. Our only suite is permanently rented out under Sir Nikolai’s name, but his husband is the one who lives there most of the time.”

“Doesn’t he have a mansion somewhere to lounge around in?”

“I don’t know the ins and outs of it, Dan,” Mona says, impatiently. “It’s not exactly my place to pry into such matters. All I know is that he’s married to a Royal, and for whatever reason, he spends most of his days alone here, either in the suite on the top floor, or out on the slopes somewhere.”

He nods, feeling strangely guilty for his probing question. He has no idea why he’s interested at all, really. What’s interesting about a severe, cold dick-brain with a superiority complex and no manners? Sure, he’s… striking to behold, but that doesn’t make him worthy of dwelling upon.

He’s about to say something dismissive to this effect, but then he notices that Mona is already heading for the door. He grabs his bowl, about to speedily wash it up in the sink, but Louise snatches it from him and makes a shooing motion, then winks at him. He grins, grateful, and chucks the remains of his coffee down his throat before following Mona out of the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posted next Friday!


	3. Chapter 3

Mr Novokoric doesn’t cross paths with Dan for the rest of the day, so Dan doesn’t get a second opportunity to gawp at an entitled semi-celebrity, not that he has much of a desire to, after their first encounter. It’s probably for the best that Dan avoids him for a while, given that he’s still shimmering with rage. How was he supposed to know that this man is some sort of Royal exception to the hotel rules? Just because he made a mistake doesn’t mean he deserved to be talked to with such…  _disdain_. 

So, devoid of any further unpleasant - albeit unnervingly handsome - strangers, the rest of Dan’s third day passes without much to note. Mona had been right about the days here being pretty much the same. He imagines it will soon become hard to distinguish one day from the next. He’ll have to use the evening film as a marker so he can remember which days he did what, though that won’t be easy either, as Mona has an apparent love for heist movies, which aren’t known for their vastly dissimilar plots.

Dan heads to bed weary, wondering how long it will take to fall into a routine, so he can drift through the days without thinking. As he fumbles for his key, he notes the light on in the next room again, and pauses.  _He spends most of his days alone here, either in the suite on the top floor, or out on the slopes somewhere._  If Mr Novo-dick is really in the room next to his, then that presumably means the music Dan has been hearing is coming from him. At least that means Dan isn’t developing a slow schizophrenia, but it does seem odd. Dan wouldn’t have had the man who shouted at him this morning pegged as a Chopin enthusiast.

Putting it to the back of his mind for now, Dan goes inside and gets ready for bed, only realising he’s being especially quiet when he’s already in his pyjamas, sat under the covers, ears staining to hear something above the silence. As the wait stretches on, Dan feels the familiar weight of his own guilt, failure and misery closing in, and soon the first of his tears begin to drip from his lashes. Soon, he is full on sniffling, eyes streaming, mouth pulled down in an unattractive curl.

And like clockwork, a melody begins, drifting slowly and calmly through the wooden wall. It’s soothing and delicate, making Dan’s sniffs lessen, and then stop altogether. He sighs in relief, settling back into his pillows, and lets the music buffet him gently into a long, deep sleep.

*

The next couple of days pass in a similar vein. Dan is woken early by the extreme light pouring into his room. He drags himself downstairs and into the kitchen, where Louise teases him for ten minutes straight while he drinks the coffee she makes him, and eats whatever delicious food she’s prepared. He sets up for breakfast out on the balcony with Mona, and serves the four guests that attend, all of whom tell him he’s a ‘charming’ and ‘polite’ young man. 

In the intervening hours between breakfast and lunch, he cleans the guests’ bedrooms and changes the beds, tidies the communal areas, and if he’s feeling brave, goes outside to sweep the area around the hot tub and wipe down the benches in the sauna. He and Mona then serve lunch, eat whatever Louise has left over, then do a general stock take. After that, they serve dinner, eat dinner, and finally set up the evening film. During any downtime, Dan sits at the front desk, answering the phone when it occasionally rings, booking in new guests, or granting the requests of current ones. At the end of the long days, Dan falls onto his bed, sometimes managing to worm out of his clothes, sometimes not, and makes a valiant attempt at crying himself to sleep. Inevitably however, that light, classical music starts up before he can get too lost in his own sadness, and he finds himself floating away with it, his cheeks sticky with dried tears when he wakes up the next morning, ready to repeat the whole thing again.

He’s never exactly rushed off his feet, but he rarely has time to be bored, apart from late in the evening, when Mona leaves him at the desk, and he wiles away the hours until his shift ends playing on his phone, or reading one of the books left for guests on the mezzanine lounge.

For three days, Dan doesn’t speak again with Mr Novokoric, though he does glimpse a flash of crimson from his window each morning, and occasionally catches sight of him wandering through the hotel, on his way back from the hot tub, or clasping a cup of coffee as he sneaks back into his room. On his fifth day, Dan watched from the desk as Mr Stevens - a middle aged guest with a receding hairline and an aversion to wearing anything except a robe - accosted Mr Novokoric in the lobby to discuss the weather. Somewhat hilariously, Mr Novokoric appeared to be too polite to simply turn his back on the man, and had stood for eight patient minutes, responding in short, stunted sentences, and looking extremely uncomfortable. It had been the highlight of Dan’s day.

On Saturday, Dan’s seventh day, just before noon, Dan is sat at the front desk, wondering if Louise might have finished making lunch yet, and if he could go up and see, when the front door slams open, and Mr Novokoric hurtles through it, still wearing his skis. Dan can only watch, mouth agape, as the man awkwardly but determinedly slides his way into the lobby before reaching down, muttering angrily, and undoing the skis one at a time. He then proceeds to kick each one hard, sending them skittering across the wooden floor, and into the far wall. It’s reckless, idiotic behaviour, and if it had been anyone else, Dan would not have hesitated to call them out on it. The skis are heavy, and the walls are made of wood, for christ’s sake. Dan can see the chips they’ve made from all the way across the room.

Mr Novokoric does not, apparently, care about this. He marches across the room towards Dan, pulling off his thick gloves and tossing them to the floor as he goes. If he thinks Dan is picking them up for him he can forget about it. By the time Mr Novokoric is at the desk, Dan’s mouth is a set line, and he’s having trouble keeping himself from curling his fingers into fists.

“Sir, is there something the matter-”

“I need to use your phone,” Mr Novokoric barks. “Now.”

Dan thinks about saying no, or refusing, mostly because he wants to piss this asshole off, but his years of customer service training override his petulance. “Certainly, Sir,” he says through gritted teeth, then reaches underneath the desk, and lifts the corded telephone up onto it. “Go right ahead.”

Mr Novokoric snatches the receiver at once, and immediately begins punching in numbers with such vigorous jabbing motions that Dan fears for the keys. He lifts the receiver to his ear, fingers drumming restlessly on the lip of the desk. He turns to Dan, incredulous.

“Are you just going to stand there and listen to my private call?”

Heat surges into Dan’s cheeks, mostly born of the intense anger that sweeps through him. He doesn’t trust himself to reply, so he simply turns from the sight of the man in front of him, and begins pretending to be engrossed in the guest information database on the hotel’s only ancient computer.

For a moment, Dan can still feel eyes on him, and is convinced he’s about to be shouted at further, but then he hears Mr Novokoric’s voice say “about bloody time!”

The voice on the other end of the line, which Dan can just about hear, replies, “who is this?”

Dan has to hide his smirk in his hand.

“It’s your husband, you wank-stain,” comes Mr Novokoric’s hushed, furious response, which has Dan’s eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t recognise my voice.”

“Phil?” the disembodied voice says, vaguely. “This isn’t the number you were calling from a minute ago.”

It’s taking an extreme amount of effort for Dan to keep his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. He tries valiantly to appear as though he’s engrossed in reading the Stevens’ guest information. It seems that under ‘special requests’, Mr and Mrs Stevens had asked for ‘an extra robe each’.

“That’s because you pissed me off so much that I dropped my phone down a mountain!”

There’s a pause in the conversation, and then the responding voice says, a touch amusedly, “a little harsh to blame me for that, darling. What could I possibly have said that would upset you so much?”

“I’m upset because you cancelled on me,  _again_!” Mr Novokoric snaps. “I can’t believe you, Nikolai. How long are you going to leave me up here at the peak of Mount-fucking-Whatever? Are you playing out some warped, Rapunzel love story for the media?”

There’s something vaguely pathetic lurking beneath Mr Novokoric’s words. Dan squints at the screen, not seeing it, and strains to hear whatever is being said on the other end of the line.

“Darling, you know I’d have you with me in a heartbeat if I could,” the voice says, sounding slow and distracted. “I’ve just been drowning in all these meetings and dull media-stints. You’d be bored stiff if you were here. It won’t be much longer. There’s that benefit thingy in a week or so, right? You should probably come along to that. I’ll send the helicopter to collect you.”

“Oh I should  _probably_  come, should I?” Mr Novokoric snarls. “Good to know that, as we’re married, it’s  _probably_  a good idea for us to be together at least one fucking night of the year. You know, most married couples actually live in the same house. We’re not even in the same country most of the time!”

“It’s for the best that you stay out of the public eye for a bit, Phil. We’ve spoken about this.” 

“Even if that’s true, Nik, you said you’d take a few days off to spend some time with me-”

“I have to go, darling, I’m sorry,” the voice says. Dan might be imagining it, but he thinks he hears a splashing noise, followed by a shriek of laughter. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“What’s that noise? Nikolai, are you in the Ibiza apartment again-”

He cuts off as the dull note of the dial tone replaces the other person’s voice. Dan chews the inside of his cheek, and sneaks a glance up as Mr Novokoric places the receiver down, slowly, and turns to lean against the desk. At first, Dan is smug; he wishes he were able to hang up so brutally on him, but on closer inspection, he notices that Mr Novokoric actually appears to be crying. At least, his bright blue eyes are glistening. Traitorously, Dan’s good nature wins out, and he feels his heart squeeze in dumb sympathy. Dick-brain or not, Dan can’t just sit by while a guest he’s employed to look after cries right beside him. He plucks the box of tissues from the shelf behind him.

“Ex-excuse me, Mr Novokoric,” Dan says, swallowing a wash of pride for getting the name right on his first out-loud try. He holds out the box of tissues even though the other man doesn’t acknowledge him. “Here, take these.”

Mr Novokoric turns to Dan coldly, snatching the box from him. “I’m not crying,” he insists, but yanks a tissue from the box anyway, scrubbing it over his face.

“Oh, no,” Dan says, nodding in complete agreement with this outright lie. He really is an absurdly patient and talented customer service worker. “I just thought…” he scrambles for a viable explanation. “Well, I don’t know about you but I think the, er, high altitude of this place does something weird to my sinuses. I’m blubbering every night,” he jokes, thinking that the peppering of truth might give his ramble a little weight. 

It would be so easy, Dan thinks, for Mr Novokoric to accept Dan’s fumbling excuse for the offer of tissues, to blame the thin air for his tears and never speak about it again. But evidently the man has a defensive arsenal so loaded and precarious it can be triggered with the slightest wrong step.

So, Mr Novokoric’s expression hardens, and he says, “so it’s you that I can hear wailing on the other side of my wall, is it? You should keep these for yourself.” He shoves the tissues back into Dan’s hands. “Maybe then I’ll actually get some sleep.”

Like he’s been whipped, Dan shrinks back, attempting to swallow the burning lump of coal now lodged in his throat. Any response he might have had, stupidly kind or not, dies on his tongue. For a split second, he imagines he sees a flash of regret pass over Mr Novokoric’s features, but then he is stalking away, skis lying forgotten against the wall, and stomping up the stairs. Dan sits heavily down in his chair, and tries not to let the flames of angry, hurt humiliation burn him to ash.

*

That night, Dan does his best to muffle his sobs in his pillow. They’re worse tonight, because the embarrassment of knowing he’s being heard, that he’s been heard this whole time, only makes him feel worse. If he could halt the tears altogether for Mr Novokoric’s sake he would, but nightfall has always been the time where his resolve leaves him. With nothing to distract him, Dan can only dwell on everything that’s wrong. At ten past one, however, the music seems to know to start up anyway; it’s baffling, obviously, but the only explanation Dan can think of is that the music is either unrelated to Dan’s crying, or being played to drown it out. He tries not to be grateful for it, knows that before long he’ll rely on it to send him off, but in the end he can’t help letting the swells of notes wash over him, and press him into unconsciousness.

*

Just after lunch has been cleared on Sunday, Dan is caught in a pleasant but rather over-detailed discussion with Mr and Mrs Stevens about their show-dog, Sherbet, when Louise calls him over from the serving hatch. He excuses himself politely, leaving the middle-aged couple to their game of Uno, and walks up to her.

“What’s up with you today?” she asks as soon as he’s within earshot, then places a mug of coffee in front of him. “You’ve got a face like a trodden foot.”

He manages a smile, but he doubts it’s very convincing. “Just tired,” he says, picking up the mug. “Thanks.”

She slaps his wrist, and he almost spills some. “That’s not for you, foot-face.”

“Oh.” He lowers it, glancing back at the Stevens’s. “Did they order…?”

“It’s for Phil,” she says, briskly wiping up the coffee Dan spilled with a wad of kitchen roll. For a moment, Dan just looks at her blankly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Mr Novokoric.”

“Oh,” Dan says, and smartly places the mug back down, stomach squeezing.

For whatever reason, his abrupt action makes Louise laugh. “Christ, he’s not a yeti, Dan. Anyway, he’s been looking for you all morning, so I thought you could take this to him.”

Exhausted as he is, it takes the words a few tries to penetrate Dan’s addled mind. “Wait, what?” he asks eventually, sure he must have misheard. “Looking for me?”

“Yes,” Louise replies, like this is a perfectly normal occurence. “Mona mentioned it earlier. Apparently he was hoping to catch you at breakfast but you weren’t serving.”

“I… I was adjusting the chlorine levels in the hot tub,” Dan says, feeling as though he’s stood on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Mr Novokoric is looking for him, specifically? Had he not made Dan feel awful enough yesterday? Is he looking for another chance to brutally attack his ego for a trivial reason? “Do I have to take this to him?”

Louise looks at him strangely. “Are you scared of him or something? I know he’s technically Royalty, but he’s just a regular guy underneath, Dan. Not much older than you. I know it’s a bit daunting at first, but don’t worry. He’s pretty chill.”

This makes Dan snort. “I’ll try and remember that next time he’s verbally abusing me.”

“Yeah, he’s a hot-head at times,” Louise allows. “I remember my first few encounters with him being on the snippy side. You’ve just got to get past that though, he doesn’t mean it. I just think he’s a bit… frustrated.” This makes Dan’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and Louise laughs at her own phrasing. “Not like that. Well, maybe like that. I mean, he’s here for weeks at a time, supposedly having ensnared this fabulous young hottie. But where is this prize pig, y’know?”

“Ibiza,” Dan mutters, and when Louise sends him a puzzled look, he picks up the coffee mug, sensing defeat. “Where am I taking this, then?”

“He was heading for the gym, last I saw.” Louise watches him make his way towards the stairs, being extra careful not to spill any coffee lest he feel the wrath upon its delivery. “Dan?” she calls out, making him pause. “Be nice, okay?”

“ _Me_  be nice?” Dan exclaims, and turns to shoot her an incredulous look, but Louise’s expression is unmoved. 

“Just let him say what he’s got to say.”

“Let him belittle me, you mean?”

Louise sighs heavily, turning away from him, and Dan is left in the middle of the mezzanine with a steaming mug of coffee, and a niggling sense that there’s still some great secret etched into the wooden walls of this place that he still hasn’t been entirely privy to.

*

Dan has only been in the gym once, on his first day, which is a perfect allegory for his entire mentality around gyms in general. From outside the door, he can hear a rhythmic pounding noise, like someone is punching the shit out of something. It’s unsurprising, then, that as he enters the gym, he sees Mr Novokoric in the corner by the mirrors, punching the shit out of a big cylindrical bag. For obvious reasons, this sight does not instil Dan with a desperate urge to go over and interact with Mr Novokoric, who is wearing headphones, and appears not to have noticed Dan come in.

Giving him a wide berth, Dan slowly approaches, intending to place the mug of coffee down on a nearby surface and escape quickly before Mr Novokoric has the chance to either hit him or yell at him some more. Instead, what happens is this: Dan attempts to edge along the wall to put the coffee down, and at the same moment, Mr Novokoric draws back his elbow and catches Dan in the arm, jolting him. Louise makes a good cup of coffee, Dan will admit. As it soaks through the fabric of his shirt sleeve, however, he can’t help but wish it was a little less scalding.

“Fuck,” Dan shouts, just as Mr Novokoric jumps back in surprise, ripping his headphones from his ears. He’s panting and damp, strands of his jet black hair sticking to his forehead, making it look like he’s got a stupid noughties side-fringe.

“Careful!” Mr Novokoric exclaims, as if Dan hasn’t already done the stupid thing. Surprisingly, he takes the mug of hot coffee from Dan’s hand. “Are you hurt?”

Dan shakes out his sleeve, wincing. “I’ll live. Sorry for startling you.”

“You should announce yourself next time,” he says, like a wanker. Like Dan calling out ‘whaddup it’s me your boy Dan’ would have done any good at all when he was blaring what Dan thinks is… Fall Out Boy? Really?… through his headphones. “I could have really hurt you.”

Doubtful of this statement, Dan’s eyes flick down to Mr Novokoric’s biceps. Begrudgingly, as he surveys the shallow valleys of his arm muscles, Dan admits to himself that out of the two of them, there’s no question of who would best the other. Dan’s never been more glad of his own long sleeves.

“Yeah,” Dan mutters, wanting nothing more than to scurry away to his room and recover from this incident with the excuse of changing his wet shirt. “Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again. Enjoy your coffee.”

“Wait,” he says as Dan turns to go. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Oh, God. It’s true. Louise wasn’t pulling his leg, it seems. Dan seriously considers just legging it. He could potentially feign a third degree burn from the coffee and sprint back through the doors. “Um, yeah,” Dan says, his own cowardice feeling vaguely nauseating as it curdles in his stomach. “Louise mentioned.”

“Yesterday, when I used the phone at reception-”

“I’m really sorry that I’ve been keeping you awake,” Dan blurts, badly needing this to be over  _now_. “I never meant to-”

“I owe you an apology,” Mr Novokoric says, which stuns Dan into silence. For a minute, all he can do is stare into those two darting blue eyes, utterly perplexed. Mr Novokoric sips his coffee self-consciously. “It was rude and completely unacceptable for me to hone in on something so personal. I have no idea what your circumstances might be. I was upset, and I lashed out. So,” he sticks his hand out, awkwardly, into the space between them. “I’m sorry. Can we put it behind us?”

Dan stares at his outstretched hand as if it were a foreign beast. Then, belatedly remembering societal norms, he reaches out and takes it. “W-well, I suppose-”

“Great,” Mr Novokoric says, shaking Dan’s hand quickly, once, up and down, and then dropping it like it’s coated in poison. 

Dan stares at Mr Novokoric’s back as he sets the coffee down and pulls his gloves back on. Could it be that there’s a shade of decency to this man? Not once did it cross Dan’s mind that the reason he might be looking for Dan was to  _apologise_.

“Yeah, great,” Dan echoes softly, and Mr Novokoric turns, eyebrows raised, as if he’s surprised Dan is still standing there.

“You can go now,” he says, puzzled, and turns his back.

All thoughts that Mr Novokoric is anything less than a rude, entitled bitch flies out of the gym window. Dan rolls his eyes, shaking his sleeve dry as he turns to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee-related catastrophes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all enjoying so far! If you fancy following updates/reading the fic on tumblr, my URL is danfanciesphil.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, in an unrelated note - if you were one of the beautiful people that voted for me in the 2018 phanfiction awards then I am so so grateful! I am SO honoured to have won best author and best overall fic (Birthday Sex). I'm forever indebted to you all. 
> 
> Let me know what you think about the fic so far! 
> 
> xxx

The night passes the same way - barely concealed crying, slightly ominous but mostly lovely music to drift him off to sleep - and then morning comes, stark and bright as usual. Dan gets dressed, begs Louise for coffee and sustenance -  _“did you find him?” “yes” “were you nice?” “I was a peach” “what did he say?” “he said he was sorry for yelling” “aw, told you he was a sweetie deep down” “mmhmm” -_  and is then rounded up by Mona for breakfast duty.

“I’ve already switched the heaters on and put out the tablecloths,” Mona tells him as he drains the last of his coffee. “Could you just go and put the mugs and cutlery out? I think we’ve only got two tables today.”

“Sure,” Dan says, giving Louise’s arm a small squeeze of gratitude for the breakfast and coffee; she waves a batter-y whisk at him in a shooing motion, but she’s smiling. .

Once he’s armed with a basket of silverware and crockery from the cupboard, Dan heads for the balcony and stops short, noticing that for the first time, someone is already sat out there. Stunned, Dan just stares through the glass at Mr Novokoric, who is transfixed on the blue-shadowed mountains in the distance. Reluctantly, Dan pushes through the doors, bracing himself for the cold, both from the frigid mountain air, and the attitude of his least favourite guest.

The door slams shut behind him, making Mr Novokoric turn. “Good morning,” he says, like an automatic greeting. For some reason - probably the cold and the pre-caffeine kick-in - Dan finds himself a little tongue-tied. He nods at the other man, struggling to hold onto the basket in his hands.

“Morning,” he manages, eyes sticking to the light wind-stung flush on Mr Novokoric’s high cheeks.

Mr Novokoric turns back to the view then, and Dan begins setting out the mugs, knives, forks, spoons and glasses on the tables. He assumes that Mr Novokoric must be one of the two tables having breakfast today, which makes sense, as the Stevens’ left yesterday evening. They’d hugged Dan tightly, promising to return before the year was out. It had, in a way, been rather sad to see them disappearing with Kaspar back down the mountain in the swinging cable car. Mostly Dan is glad that he no longer has to avert his eyes as they walk through the hotel with their omnipresent robes dangerously loose, but they were a parental sort of couple, and he thinks they might genuinely miss him too. Fumbling only slightly, Dan begins to place a setting out in front of Mr Novokoric. As he sets the mug down, Mr Novokoric reaches for it, and frowns as he tilts it towards him.

“Can I get some coffee?”

Dan pauses, flipping the question over in his mind. “Coffee?”

One of those jet black eyebrows springs upwards. “Yes. Is that permitted?”

Dan nods, blushing, and hating himself for it. He takes the mug and scampers off to the kitchen, managing to garble some request to Louise. For some reason his flustered state is amusing to her, and she pretends for a minute or two to have no clue what he’s asking - not helpful - but eventually he gets a mug of filter coffee out of her. He watches, curious, as she automatically adds soya milk and two heaped teaspoons of sugar.

“He’s lactose intolerant,” she says, by way of explanation. “And has a hell of a sweet tooth.”

“I didn’t say who it’s for,” Dan says, perplexed, as he takes the mug from her.

“Who else around here would have you blushing and stammering like a nun at a brothel?”

Dan chooses not to respond to this, mostly because he can’t summon anything except a mortified spluttering sound. He takes the mug of coffee back out to Mr Novokoric, cheeks still a warm pink. It’s just the wind flush though, at this point. Probably. 

“Would you like anything else, Sir?” Dan asks politely. “The chef is still cooking breakfast, but I could perhaps get you some cereal or yoghurt-”

“No, thank you,” Mr Novokoric says sniffily, and Dan replays what Louise just said to him.

“Oh, sorry, you don’t have dairy,” Dan says, shaking his head. Mr Novokoric turns his head sharply back to Dan, frowning. “I could get you some fresh fruit? Or-”

“No,” Mr Novokoric says again, though his voice is less hostile now. “I’m, uh, not hungry.” He pauses, mouth twitching. “...Thanks.”

“No problem.” Dan dithers, uncomfortably aware he now has a wedge of time to kill before the other guests emerge, and no other place to be. “So... um, why are you out here?”

“Excuse me?”

Dan shuts his eyes, cursing silently. “Sorry, I just meant- you’re normally out on the mountain at this time.”

“Oh.” Mr Novokoric sips his drink, looking away.

“Did you not fancy braving the snow today?”

Dan has absolutely no idea why he’s suddenly so intent on keeping this hellish conversation going, given that Mr Novokoric looks like he’d rather pour the coffee over his own head than continue it. Somehow it would be worse to turn away from him though, to stand off to the side and wait for more guests to turn up, arms folded, pretending not to stare as that blank, unhappy glare washed away any animation on Mr Novokoric’s sharp, striking features. So, Dan forces himself to stay rooted to the spot, letting Mr Novokoric’s icy look of contemptuous horror at Dan’s insistence on smalltalk slice through him like he’s snow beneath Mr Novokoric’s boot.

“My ski broke,” he says, unexpectedly.

A flashback hits Dan as abruptly as the cherry-red skis hit the wall of the lobby the day before yesterday. “Oh,” Dan says. “Is there- it can’t be fixed?”

“I highly doubt I’m going to find someone proficient at winter sports equipment repair at the top of this fucking mountain, do you?”

The curse word is shocking, and it takes Dan a moment to let it go. Phil’s accent is slightly Northern, but his diction and use of language is impeccable, presumably due to all the hobnobbing and schmoozing he has to do, as a ‘Royal’. Hearing him swear is what he imagines it would be like hearing the Queen swear. In a sense, it’s rather titillating - another reason Dan should abandon this conversation for good. Luckily, at that moment, the balcony door opens, and Mona ushers the two Bryce sisters through, leading them to the other laid table.

Relieved to see the chattering, marginally irritating middle-aged women for once, Dan excuses himself from Mr Novokoric, who barely bats an eye, and goes to take their breakfast order.

*

In a moment of downtime, while the evening film screening is going on, Dan goes hunting for two cherry-red skis, which he finds near the hotel entrance, leant against the wall. He takes hold of the left one, and examines it closely. Just as Mr Novokoric said, it has a broken appendage - the strap which secures the boot to the ski has come loose. The straps are peculiar to Dan, having no backs to them, but Dan can see where the front part used to fix to the ski itself even so. By comparing it with the other ski, Dan thinks it’s mendable. All too aware that he’s got nothing better to do for the next few hours, Dan takes the ski over to the desk and lays it over his lap as he sits down to take a closer look. 

It’s just because he’s bored, he tells himself as he hunts for tools in Mona’s office, and discovers a tiny screwdriver and screws in one of the cleaning cupboards, along with a pot of superglue. The film is a long one tonight -  _The Italian Job_  - so for a few hours Dan is able to work in complete solitude, listening to a faint Muse song through one headphone, and not stopping until the ski is fixed.

*

“I just don’t understand why you’re still holding a grudge against the poor man,” Louise says, scrubbing at a pot with a scourer. Dan, sat up on one of the kitchen counters sipping hot chocolate, rolls his eyes. “He apologised for being rude, didn’t he?”

“Some apology,” Dan counters. Since two days ago in the gym, Dan has convinced himself that Mr Novokoric’s words had been largely to smooth things over with the staff member he’d pissed off, considering that it would be pretty awkward seeing him around the place 24-7 if they were not on speaking terms. In no way, Dan has decided, did Mr Novokoric actually mean what he said. “Just because he’s eloquent doesn’t make him sincere.”

“Ooh-er,” Louise says, flicking washing up water at him. He squeaks, shielding his hot chocolate. “Sounds like he got under your skin.”

Dan’s next sip is too hot, and he burns his tongue.

“Anyway,” Louise says, tipping out the saucepan and laying it out to dry. She starts untying her apron, wearily. “There’s three hours until I’ve got to start on dinner, so I think I’ll have a little lie down. Can you hold the fort for a bit?”

“Uh…” Dan looks through the serving hatch into the empty mezzanine lounge. The Bryce sisters are the only guests staying here at the moment, though another couple are due to check in tonight. Right now, he’s pretty sure the Bryce sisters - an excitable, childlike pair of forty-something women on what they refer to as a ‘girls getaway’ - are in the jacuzzi. If they were anywhere indoors, Dan is certain he’d be able to hear their shrieks of laughter no matter which room they were in. “Sure, yeah. No worries.”

“If you need me, I’m in room three,” Louise says, already on her way to the kitchen door. “But Dan?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t need me,” she warns, and then exits the room.

*

About half an hour later, Dan is in the same position atop the kitchen counter, playing Crossy Road on his phone and polishing off a flapjack from the batch Louise made this morning. Suddenly, a noise like a throat clearing jolts him, and his animated emo goose is hit by a truck. He lowers the phone, head lifting, to see Mr Novokoric at the serving hatch, that cool assessing gaze chilling the temperature of the kitchen by at least two degrees. Dan swallows some flapjack the wrong way, and has to hide a mild choking fit.

In Mr Novokoric’s hand is a mug. “Is Louise here?” he asks.

Dan shakes his head, swallowing his own tonsils to cleat the flapjack from his airway. His eyes water, but he gets down from the counter one gangly leg at a time. “No, sorry,” he croaks. He wipes his hands of flapjack crumbs on a nearby tea-towel. “She’s napping. Can I help?”

Mr Novokoric appears troubled by this news, and takes a moment to reply, as if he’s mulling something over. Eventually, whatever wins out, and he asks, “any chance of some coffee?”

“Oh,” Dan says. “Have you run out of the instant packets in your room? I can find some in the stock cupboard-”

“No-o,” Mr Novokoric interrupts, as if he’s speaking with a half-wit. “I’m not looking for instant coffee. Louise usually makes me a macchiato, if I ask her.”

Dan’s blood runs cold, and he turns to eye the bulky coffee machine sat menacingly on the far counter. “Right,” Dan mutters. “Of course she does.”

Given his past failures to please Mr Novokoric thus far, he doesn’t feel he can say ‘oh, I’m not actually sure how to work this machine, maybe it would be best to wait for Louise to wake up’. So instead, Dan takes the mug, and steps warily over to the machine to attempt something called a ‘macchiato’.

“Caramel macchiato,” Mr Novokoric clarifies, at which Dan turns to blink at him, utterly bemused.

“Mhmm,” he says, for some wild reason. “No problem.”

As he surveys the contraption before him, Dan can feel eyes boring into the back of him - pure judgement coated in an intense, deep blue. He tries his best to ignore the prickle of skin this stare creates, and sets about mimicking what he can remember from watching Louise work the machine. He pours milk into one of the chrome jugs, shoves the spout into it and turns a dial. Droplets of milk immediately fly everywhere, and a monstrous hissing sound emerges from the beast. He quickly turns the dial back, abandoning that for now, and focuses on unfixing one of the espresso-filter-things from its lock. This takes a good two minutes of tugging and silently begging, during which time the milk in the jug seems to develop an appetising skin on top. At last, Dan pulls the thing free, dumps the used granules out and tamps some coffee into it, though he has no idea how much, and probably over-fills it. He does manage to fix it back in place, and over several agonising minutes the espresso drips through into the mug. When he can’t stand the waiting any longer, knowing damn well he’s being scrutinised, Dan takes the mug out, pours a dash of lukewarm milk into it from the jug, and takes it over to the hatch.

It looks.... pretty vile. But he has to hand Mr Novokoric something.

“Uh, here we go. One macchiato.”

He realises in the next moment that he forgot to add any caramel. Not that he’d have any idea where to procure it from in this kitchen. Mr Novokoric looks down at the coffee in Dan’s hand, sends him a look of something like pity, and makes no move to take it.

“Aaand suddenly I can think of nothing better than instant coffee,” he says, nose wrinkling.

He turns away, heading back towards the stairs, leaving Dan with an undrinkable mug of coffee, and a sudden urge to hurl himself off the side of the mountain.

*

“Dan, I need a word,” Mona says, beckoning him into the small office at the back of reception.

It’s early evening, and the neither the Bryce sisters nor the Lautrecs - a quiet French gay couple that arrived an hour or so ago - are interested in an evening film, so there’s fuck all to do. Instantly upon hearing Mona’s words, fear strikes Dan in the chest; he follows Mona into her office, heart in his throat. 

She gestures for him to sit on one of the wicker chairs in front of her desk, so he does, knee jiggling with nerves. “I’m really sorry Mona,” Dan blurts before she’s even sat down. “The job description didn’t say anything about being barista trained. If you received a complaint-”

“I’m going to stop you there, Dan,” Mona says, loudly and shrilly. “I don’t know what you are apologising for, but it’s probably best if I never find out, hm?” 

Gulping down the relief that surges forth, Dan nods emphatically, and relaxes back into the chair. Mona looks a little more polished than usual today, he notes. She has a high-collared white blouse on, which elongates her neck, and a pearl-encrusted scrunchie securing her usual bun. Dan has begun to notice that Mona dresses a bit smarter on the days the mail is delivered, or when new guests arrive, or leave. In other words, any time Kaspar is expected to be around. Kaspar dropped off the Lautrecs earlier, so today is no exception.

Right now she sits at the small desk, hands clasped, and clears her throat. Her cheeks are tinged with rosy pink, probably from Kaspar’s brief visit earlier. The idea of no-nonsense Mona having a teeny crush creates a warm glow in Dan’s chest, and he smiles. “I called you in here because I have some unfortunate news,” Mona says. Dan’s smile quickly vanishes. “I’ve been called away this weekend.”

“Oh,” Dan says, already confused. “Is everything-”

“It’s a personal matter,” Mona tells him, firmly ending his inquiry before it’s begun. “But the timing is poor, what with you having just started, and with it being Louise’s weekend off.”

For a few moments, the implications of this don’t quite settle in. Then, Dan stops being quite so dim. “Wait, do you mean I’d be here  _alone_?”

Mona avoids his eye, neatening some papers on her desk. “I understand that it might seem rather daunting.”

“Mona, I’m nowhere near qualified to run this place on my own,” Dan says in a rush, blood starting to pound loudly in his ears.

Just the thought of such responsibility is crushing; what if he forgot to serve lunch? What if he overslept and nobody was available for the guests? He’s basically a glorified assistant here, he can’t be expected to handle  _real_  decisions.

“Dan, it’s just for a couple of days,” Mona says; there’s a pleading tone to her voice that Dan expects doesn’t rear its head very often. “Just until Louise returns on Sunday night. Kaspar can make it up here in a matter of hours if there’s an emergency. But you won’t need him. There’s only one couple booked in to stay, and I doubt they’ll be very high maintenance.”

One couple and a narcissistic rich twat-face whose snobbery extends right down to his coffee order, Dan thinks, but begrudgingly admits to himself that Mr Novokoric is unlikely to be very demanding either. The man seems to keep mostly to himself unless he truly can’t help it. Dan folds his arms across his chest, lip caught between his teeth. He can’t really refuse, particularly as he suspects that Mona is desperate enough to get down onto her stocking-covered knees and beg him. Perhaps he  _could_  manage to keep the place afloat without any major screw-ups. But the stress of it all might kill him, even so.

“I know this is completely unfair of me,” Mona tells him, and reaches up to tug the pearl scrunchie out of her bun. The hair spills out, revealing a shoulder-length bob; the sight is so shocking that Dan feels his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he wants to scoop up the loose locks and pull them back into position. Mona runs both hands through the mess of hair, eyes fluttering shut. “I wouldn’t ask unless it were really important. Normally I’d rather drop dead than leave this place in someone else’s hands, even for a day or so, especially without Louise to help. But I just can’t see another option. It’s… it’s my grandmother, you see. She’s ninety-four, and on her last legs-”

“It’s fine,” Dan says quickly. He can’t bear to see her like this; he doubts that even Louise, who’s worked here for four years, has seen Mona with her hair down. Dan’s never even seen Mona in plain clothes. She probably sleeps in her crisp skirt-suits. “I can handle things,” Dan assures her, hoping he has something akin to conviction in his tone, given that he’s speaking out of his ass. “Like you said, it’s just a weekend.”

“I’ll be a phone call away,” Mona promises, eyes reopening in order to look at Dan like he’s Christ arisen. “Thank you, Dan. I’ll remember this.”

*

The following morning, Mr Novokoric is sat at a table on the balcony again, just as Dan is about to set up for breakfast. He already has a coffee in front of him today, Dan notes, cheeks burning when he remembers yesterday’s fiasco. Luckily it’s windy again this morning, so he can blame the pink colour of his skin on that, if asked.

He mutters a “good morning” and starts setting Mr Novokoric’s table, asking him politely to lift his drink so that he can lay a tablecloth down. Dan can feel that hard, ultramarine stare as he sets out a knife and fork he knows will remain untouched - the man seems to live on coffee alone - and tries to resist the urge to spew some garbled apology for yesterday’s macchiato fiasco.

Before he can get it out however, Mr Novokoric speaks. “So, I asked Mona to order me a new phone, and some new skis.”

The last word makes Dan drop a spoon. He bends down to get it, but he’s not quick enough. Mr Novokoric hands it back to him, some curious sparkle hiding beneath his usual stern expression.

“More skis,” Dan echoes, trying not to let his expression droop. So, it seems he’s spent a good three hours of his life fixing a ski that will shortly be replaced. So much for being a good samaritan. “Right. Are you asking me if they’ve arrived? I can check, but I don’t think Kaspar has brought them up yet-”

“Strangest thing, though,” Mr Novokoric interrupts, as though Dan hadn’t been in the middle of a sentence. “I went to throw my old skis away, and there’s nothing wrong with them. The strap’s been mended.”

“Huh,” Dan says, turning back to his basket for a new spoon. He sets it carefully on the table, trying to remain composed. “Weird.”

“Did you fix it?”

Pinned in place by Mr Novokoric’s gaze, Dan feels his face turning from pink to red. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I had no idea you’d already ordered more-”

He breaks off, wary of the strange expression being aimed at him. Mr Novokoric’s eyes have softened, and there’s something close to a smile threatening to break forth. The idea of him actually smiling is enough to fluster Dan into taking a hasty step backwards. The man is uncomfortably pretty as it is, which is confusing enough considering he’s such an asshole. Dan doesn’t know if he could handle a dazzling grin on top of that.

“That was… unexpected,” Mr Novokoric says slowly. His smile still hasn’t quite broken through, but his face has lost the hardness Dan is used to seeing. Without the usual frown lines and turned down corners of his mouth, he could even be beautiful. “Thank you. Of course, your repair is unneeded now, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“Yeah, um, no worries,” Dan says, wondering how rude it would be to just run away. “I had a spare minute, so…”

“Not many people would have the initiative, let alone the intellect to do that,” he says, draining the last of his coffee. He hold the mug out for Dan to take. “I’m impressed.”

Feeling about three inches tall now, Dan just gives him a tight smile. “Thanks,” he says through gritted teeth, and takes the mug. “Another coffee?”

“Depends,” Mr Novokoric answers, arching an eyebrow. “Who’s making it?”

“L-Louise,” Dan says, cheeks hot again.

“Then yes, please,” he says, turning back to the view in front of him.

“Right away, Mr Novokoric,” Dan mutters, glad of the eventual opening to escape.

“Dan?”

Ugh, not so fast, it seems. “Yes?”

“Call me Phil, if you like.”

*

“Lou, I have an urgent problem,” Dan says, slamming into the kitchen.

She doesn’t look up from the eggs she’s scrambling. “It’s gonna take me a few hours to sort your hair out for you, Dan. I don’t have time right now, I’ve got to get breakfast out.”

“What? No, I need you to teach me how to work the coffee machine,” Dan says, smoothing his hair down self-consciously.

Louise looks up sharply, a smirk spreading over her mouth. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Dan says. “I’m going to be here on my own all weekend. I need to know how to make fancy coffees for… guests.”

“Caramel macchiatos?”

“All the different kinds!”

Louise laughs in her long, pretty trill, and nods. “After breakfast,” she says. “Meet me here, I’ll give you a lesson.”

Dan grins at her, then plucks a raspberry from a bowl nearby. “Oh, and Phil wants another cup when you have a sec.”

“Sure,” Louise mutters, going back to the eggs. “I’ll get that for  _Phil_.”  

Dan pretends not to hear the knowing smile hidden in her voice as he exits the kitchen. He jogs back outside then, just in time to usher the Lautrecs to their table. 

*

As it turns out, the coffee machine is going to take more than one lesson to master. Not because it’s especially complicated - more because Dan is utterly inept.

“Watch it!” Louise shrieks as Dan turns the wrong knob, and spurts actual boiling steam from the nozzle. Luckily, they both somehow manage to avoid getting scalded. “My God, Daniel, have you never watched the barista as they make your latte before?”

“I’m not really very attentive,” Dan says, sheepishly. 

He looks over the herd of coffees he’s made over the last hour, all huddled together on the counter. The argument could probably be made that his most recent is better than the initial attempts, but that would hardly be a compliment. He imagines each of the milky, sludge-coloured concoctions is silently whispering ‘ _kill me, please_ ’. 

“Okay, let’s try a macchiato again.” He’s nothing if not determined.

“You seem to be under the impression that I have nothing better to do than dodge you covering me in coffee granules,” Louise says, wiping the nozzle clean. “I’ve got to get lunch going, so maybe we can pick this up tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Friday,” Dan protests. “That’s the day you leave.”

“Not ‘til the evening,” Louise says. “There’s enough time to squeeze in another lesson before that, God help me.”

“Just one more,” Dan begs, giving her his most puppy-dog expression. “Just show me the macchiato again. Please.”

She sighs dramatically, sort of groaning. “Alright, alright. Get the caramel syrup then.”

It’s not until Dan has the syrup in his hands that he realises Louise is insinuating that these macchiatos are for Phil. She aims a knowing smile at him, and Dan just ignores her, cheeks pink as he pours caramel into the mug. He’s frothing milk, Louise shrieking instructions in his ear -  _“tilt the jug!”, “you’re spraying it everywhere, push the nozzle down more!”, “not that far, Christ!”_  - when he senses someone watching him. Mortified at the idea his foibles might be witnessed, Dan drops the jug and hot, not-so-frothy milk gushes everywhere, soaking his and Louise’s shoes, and a lot of the kitchen floor.

“Dan, I’m about to write you off as a lost cause!” Louise shouts, tearing her hat off her head and storming to the sink to find a cloth. “If these shoes are ruined you’re buying me more.”

Dan barely hears her; he’s too busy meeting the curious stare aimed at him. Phil Novokoric is sat at one of the indoor tables in the mezzanine, chin in his hand, watching Dan through the serving hatch. For some reason, Dan lifts his hand in a semblance of a wave; this seems to amuse Phil greatly, though he doesn’t wave back. Instead, a small, barely-there smile graces his lips, presumably for himself, and then he gets up, and walks towards the stairs to the lobby.

“Right,” Louise says, chucking a damp cloth at Dan. “Clean this up, then get the hell out of my kitchen. Coffee class resumes tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five will be posted next Friday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I think we're alone now...🎶' (girls aloud version)

 

On Friday morning, after breakfast has been cleared, Mona is going over all of the things Dan needs to stay on top of over the weekend, when someone knocks on the front door. Both of them turn to the noise, obviously startled. They’re 7,000 feet up the side of a mountain. Visitors aren’t a frequent occurrence.

In the next moment, Mona gathers herself, smooths down her jacket lapels and goes to answer the door. As soon as she opens it, Kaspar bursts through, brandishing a pair of electric blue skis, a smallish parcel under his arm, and a pile of letters secured with string.

“My gorgeous Mona!” he exclaims, dropping everything onto the side-table nearby in order to pull her into a hug. He dwarfs her small frame with his big, beefy arms, but she doesn’t struggle, patting Kaspar politely on the shoulder and waiting for him to have had his fill. “Your eyes, they shine brighter than the sun glinting off the mountain snow. Your skin is the colour of a young fawn-”

“G-good morning, Kaspar,” Mona stammers out quickly once she’s been released. Her cheeks are now tinged a deep pink. “Shall I take these?”

She reaches past him to pluck the bundle of letters from the table. “My beauty,” Kaspar says, catching her by the arm as she attempts to grapple with the skis. “Allow me to lift your burdens. I will take care of everything. I can read you each letter one by one-”

“I’m perfectly capable of reading my own mail, Kaspar,” Mona interrupts sternly, though her cheeks are practically aflame at this point. Dan watches on in amusement, pretending to be busy on the reception computer. “Though I would appreciate your help taking the skis up to the top floor.”

“My angel, if you asked I would let you sail down the mountain on by back,” Kaspar cries, to which Mona rolls her eyes, but does let out a tiny smile. 

Kaspar lifts the skis onto his shoulder, then reaches for the parcel. Dan jumps to his feet so abruptly that he knocks the computer mouse off the desk. Mona and Kaspar turn in surprise at the sound. 

“I’ll take the other parcel,” Dan blurts, catching the mouse from where it swings from its cord, and placing it carefully back on the mousepad.  “It’s for Mr Novokoric, right?” 

Mona plucks the package from Kaspar and studies the name on the label, frowning. “How did you know that?”

“He... mentioned that he’d ordered a new phone.”

Something about this response makes Mona’s eyes widen. “He… told you that?”

“Yes,” Dan says, that niggling sense that he’s missing something rearing its head once again. “Is that strange?”

Mona shrugs, but gives him a once over. “No, no, that’s fine. Take the package.  You can lead the way to Mr Novokoric’s room. Show Kaspar where it is.”

“Little Dan, you are my sherpa,” Kaspar declares, grinning. Armed with the skis resting over his broad shoulder, Kaspar appears rather menacing. “Lead on.”

Ducking as Kaspar turns to and fro, expressively admiring the lobby interior as Mona blushes and accepts compliments, Dan goes to collect the package from the table. Mona summons the courage to ask Kaspar whether he’d like a coffee before he leaves again, and Kaspar’s enthusiasm for this nearly severs Dan’s neck from his shoulders. 

He scurries quickly towards the stairs, assuming that Kaspar will follow once he’s done fawning over the manager. As they begin the ascent, Kaspar prattles on about how the blizzard that was forecast for today is nowhere to be seen, and that Kaspar himself knows far more than ‘ _those baboons with their balloons and barometers_ ’ ever will. Dan just nods along, unable to get a word in edgeways even if he were so inclined. 

In truth, Dan’s rather glad of Kaspar’s non-stop chatter, as he himself is too busy trying to understand why he’s voluntarily hurled himself into this situation. On most days, he barely has to converse with Phil at all, and that’s just fine. The less they speak to one another, the less chance there is for Dan’s day to be ruined by whatever insult Phil lets slip as casually as Kaspar comments on the weather. Now, for some reason, he’s willingly placed himself in the line of fire. For the life of him, Dan cannot understand it, but something about watching Mona and Kaspar had shaken free an urgent desire to see Phil. To deliver the first bit of good news the man has probably gotten in quite some time. 

“I think now we are another thousand feet up!” Kaspar jokes as they emerge on the top floor landing. 

Dan manages a polite titter in response. “It’s room eight,” he says, gesturing to Phil’s door. 

The hallway is silent apart from Dan and Kaspar’s breathing from the climb. Kaspar has an excuse, given that he’s lugging enormous skis; Dan’s parcel isn’t that heavy, but he is incredibly unfit. Part of Dan wishes he could take a moment to get his breath back before knocking on Phil’s door, but explaining this would probably only confuse Kaspar, so he decides to just go for it. 

He knocks, just as Kaspar begins to sing breathily - something Swiss and jaunty that Dan is pretty sure is out of tune. The door opens after a while, and Phil stands there, his shirt half-buttoned, his hair ruffled and messy. He looks like he’s just been ravished in the enormous four-poster bed Dan can see behind him.

“We- our- Kaspar- um, we have a- packages for- um. Here.” Mostly to stop his mouth from doing whatever it’s doing, Dan pushes the box into Phil’s hands.

Phil gives him a curious look, then moves his attention to Kaspar and the skis. “Oh, awesome,” he says, then seems to remember himself. “I mean, that’s excellent, Kaspar. Thank you for bringing those up.”

He takes a step to one side in the doorway, letting a still-singing Kaspar swan through into Phil’s suite. Even from his limited viewpoint, it’s clear to Dan that this room is three times the size of his own next door, and far more luxurious. There’s a chaise longue, for one thing, and a window seat, and a huge wall-mounted television.

“And where would you like me to put these, Philly?” Kaspar asks in his loud, jolly voice. 

Dan’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling.  _Philly?_

It might be Dan’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a light blush skimming atop Phil’s high cheekbones. “In the cupboard, if you don’t mind, Kaspar.”

“Of course,” Kaspar replies, springing out of sight somewhere deeper into the suite.

Phil turns back to Dan, then looks down at the box he’s been given. “Thanks for this,” he says, unexpectedly. “I’m going mad without a phone.”

“No problem. I mean, Mona ordered it, I’m just the delivery boy.”

Phil nods, and a painful silence falls. Dan, having always detested awkwardness, cannot let it just sit on their shoulders, so for some reason says, “try not to chuck this one off a mountain!”

It’s a joke, of course, but Phil doesn’t laugh. Instead, his lips press together, and Dan remembers -  _idiot, idiot, idiot_  - that the information about what happened to Phil’s previous phone was gleaned from eavesdropping on a phone call he had with his husband.

“I hear we’re going to be alone over the next few days,” Phil says, swiftly changing the subject, to Dan’s relief.

“Mona and Louise are away, yeah,” Dan says, not bothering to hide the dread in his voice. “There’s another couple of guests, but yeah it’ll just be me in terms of staff-”

“I thought the other couple cancelled?”

Dan freezes, staring at Phil as a gelatinous glob of horror trickles down his spine. “W-what?” 

“I was speaking with Mona last night,” Phil says. “I think she said the other guests called to say they were too worried about the forecast blizzard.”

Just then, Kaspar re-emerges, arms empty of skis, beaming away as he squeezes past them back through the door. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Philly. Come now, little Dan, let us leave him to his duties.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches when he hears the phrase ‘little Dan’, which is mildly embarrassing, but Dan is too boggled to feel it too deeply. Instead, Dan nods vaguely at Phil, who says nothing more, and then follows Kaspar back down the hall, past his own room, towards the stairs.

*

“Well of course I was going to mention it, Dan,” Mona says distractedly, taking the coffee Dan made - courtesy of Louise’s careful tuition - and placing it down in front of Kaspar, who takes her hand and kisses it. She pulls free of him quickly, flushing for the umpteenth time, and turns back to Dan. “Honestly, I thought you’d be relieved! Now you won’t have to worry about keeping guests happy. You just have to make sure the place doesn’t blow up.”

“I think you’re forgetting one guest,” Dan can’t help but point out. “You’re leaving me alone here with- with-  _him_!”

Louise’s snicker echoes through the kitchen behind him, and Dan makes a mental note to ‘accidentally’ spray her with coffee during their next lesson.

“What’s the problem, exactly?” Mona asks, a touch impatiently. Her eyes are flicking back towards Kaspar, who is patting the chair beside his emphatically. “Louise seems to be under the impression that you and Mr Novokoric had straightened things out.”

“He apologised to Dan very nicely for upsetting him!” Louise calls unhelpfully from somewhere behind him.

Mona gives Dan a satisfied smile. “There, nothing to worry about then. Besides, I doubt you’ll see much of him. Of course you’ll need to deliver his meals to his room if he wants them. Louise can show you what needs doing with that. But apart from that, the man barely ever makes a peep.”

Begrudgingly, Dan nods, and Mona turns from him, making her way back over to Kaspar’s table. Dan watches her being flirted with for a few minutes, bemoaning his decision to take this bloody job, which has landed him a whole two days with a spoiled member of Swiss Royalty. His stomach flips as he considers the length of time stretching ahead, with just the two of them, up here, all alone. Then, he sighs, heads back into the kitchen, and calls for Louise to come and show him how to make a macchiato again.

*

Kaspar stays until the evening, with the excuse that he might as well stay until it’s time to escort Mona and Louise down the mountain. Louise is leaving for the weekend in order to see her daughter, Pearl, who lives with her father in Sussex, England. The nature of Louise’s job, along with certain court sentences that Dan doesn’t have the heart to ask about yet, means that she only gets to see Pearl a few times a year. It’s understandable therefore, that even though Mona has to be away this weekend as well, Louise can’t be expected to give up one of her rare opportunities to spend time with her child.

Dan stands with the two women in the lobby, trying not to let his distress leak into his expression as he drinks in the sight of them, bundled in thick coats, laden with luggage, about to abandon him up here, alone. Well, almost alone.

“I took Phil some shepherd’s pie up to his room an hour or so ago,” Louise tells Dan. “So he shouldn’t need anything until the morning.”

“Just don’t do anything to aggravate him,” Mona says in a low voice, zipping up her coat. “Remember he’s our best customer.” 

Before Dan can snort derisively, the front door opens and Kaspar walks through, strutting across the lobby to place a large hand on each of the women’s shoulders. “Your carriage has arrived, pretty ladies,” he says, beaming. “I will load your cases.”

Avoiding his eye, Mona primly hands over her suitcase to Kaspar, and Louise all but chucks her own bag into his arms. Dan bites his thumbnail; in just a few minutes, they’ll be gone entirely. For two whole days. 

Sensing his quiet distress, Louise comes over and squeezes her arms around him. “You’ll be fine. There’s a week’s worth of meals in the freezer. Your macchiatos haven’t killed anyone in hours. And Phil’s about as scary as a honey bee, once you see past his sting.”

“Thanks, Lou. Have fun with Pearl,” Dan replies, forcing a smile. He chooses not to mention his acute fear (and allergy) of bees. 

“I’ll see you on Monday, dweeb,” she says, releasing him. 

Mona takes hold of one of Dan’s hands in both of hers then, her eyes round and desperately searching for reassurance. “You’ll be alright, won’t you Dan?”

For a brief moment, he thinks about saying no, and begging her to stay. But he could never be so cruel. A sick grandmother is a pretty damn good reason to cry off a job she works insane hours for, for a couple of days. “Yeah, of course,” Dan says, stretching that forced smile. “Don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got the schedule down. Breakfast served at three, right?”

Mona sends him one of the ‘not funny’ looks she usually reserves for Louise. In a strange way, this makes him feel a bit better, like he’s been accepted as part of her trusted team. “I’ll see you in a couple of days,” she says, then gives his upper arms a quick squeeze.

Kaspar returns from loading their luggage, and the three of them head for the door, squawking about how cold it’s going to be, and how Kaspar’s inevitably going to make them fear for their lives by rocking the car to and fro, just to watch them shriek. They call a final goodbye to Dan, and with a cheery wave, Kaspar pulls the door firmly shut behind them.

For a few long moments, all Dan does is stare at the place they just were. Then, his eyes lift towards the ceiling, as if he could see straight through it, all the way up to the top floor, where Phil is… well. Who knows what he’s doing in that room. Throwing darts at a smiling photo of Dan’s face, perhaps.

He sighs, then sits down at the desk, wondering what to do with himself. In half an hour, it will be ten o’clock, the time his shift normally ends. It’s unlikely that Mr Novokoric will appear before then, so Dan could just call it a night, and go to bed. If he was really needed for any reason, Mr Novokoric could knock on his door. He sincerely hopes that he won’t do this, however. The idea of Phil seeing Dan, in his mismatching pyjamas and red-eyed from his night-time cry, is a horrifying one.

Mostly out of fear of Mr Novokoric needing him and Dan not being around, which could lead to him telling Mona he’s an incapable idiot, Dan remains where he is, rigid in his reception seat, until the clock strikes ten. Then, he gets up and begins doing all the things on the ‘end of the day’ checklist Mona went over with him numerous times. Lock the front door. Switch off the computer. Lock the door to the office. Turn off the lobby lights. Up to the mezzanine. Tidy any stray books, games or blankets left lying around. Lock the balcony doors. Go into the kitchen, turn off the oven, wipe down the countertops. Lights off. Up the stairs to the guest room floor. Lights off in the hallway. Up the final set of stairs. Open door to room. Linger in the hall staring at the light under the door of room eight. Go into room. Pyjamas. Clean teeth. Bed. Cry. Music. Stop crying. Listen. Sleep.

*

The snow is wet, but not as cold as he’d imagined. Dan is spread-eagled, on his back in the thick of it. Above him is an endless stretch of blue so pale it looks almost grey. He wonders if perhaps he’s laid in the sky, and is looking down at the Earth. To dispel this theory, a crow flies above him, circling once, before swooping down to perch on his chest. Dan breathes out a wash of steam.

“Hello,” Dan says.

The crow squawks.  _Hello._

“I’m not sure where I am,” Dan admits. 

His usual state of anxiety is gone for now. Despite his ignorance of what’s happening, he’s quite enjoying not knowing what’s next. He feels buoyant and free. Unless someone were gazing down from a cloud or a very tall tree, they’d never spot him in the midst of this landscape of white. That thought is a comforting one.

The crow opens its beak again, and squawks several times.  _You will find yourself soon._

Dan nods thoughtfully. The crow stamps its small, twiglet feet on Dan’s chest. “It’s nice to have some time away,” Dan says. “I’m sad, but at least it’s just me that’s sad.”

The crow pecks lightly at Dan’s nose.  _You don’t make people sad, Dan._

“I feel like I disappoint people,” Dan says, honestly. “My parents. Beth. I’m sure I’ll eventually disappoint Mona too. And Louise. I’ve already disappointed one of the guests.”

The crow stretches out one wing, and tucks its beak into the crook, then squawks,  _people disappoint themselves. They expect things you cannot always provide. This is not your fault._

“Maybe.” Dan considers the crow’s point, staring into its mass of oil-slick feathers. A jet, beady eye pokes out, holding his gaze. “You’re very wise.”

The crow extends both wings.  _And you are stronger than you know._

Before Dan can say anything else, the crow flaps its wings, beating gusts of cool air into Dan’s face, and takes off, soaring into the pale sky. It flies higher and higher, until it’s nothing but a black speck, and then out of view entirely. The snow is melting from his body heat beneath him, and he is beginning to sink down. For a moment, Dan is tempted to let himself be engulfed, to disappear into the white plains of this place. But he knows the crow is watching him, even from wherever it flew. The crow is waiting for Dan to move, to fight the feeling of unworthiness that’s pushing him down. So, he sits up; the cold snow slides down his back. He grits his teeth, focused on a faraway melody, and stands.

Dan wakes up in his bed with a sense of vigour about him. His dream had been unusual, to say the least, but has instilled a determination in him. He’s got the lay of the land now; he can run this place for forty-eight hours. There aren’t even any guests to look after, aside from one. He gets ready quickly, shrouded in his new cape of confidence, and goes downstairs to set up for a likely needless breakfast.

As soon as he walks into the mezzanine lounge, he stops short at the sight of Phil Novokoric sat at one of the indoor tables, reading a book, a mug of coffee in his hand. The cape of confidence flies off Dan’s shoulders, sweeping off into the stratosphere.

“Oh. Good- good morning, Mr Novokoric,” Dan manages, only stumbling slightly as he edges towards the kitchen. “Um, Phil, I mean.”

Phil lifts his head from his book, azure eyes glinting. “Good morning, Dan.”

“You’ve… already got a coffee, then?”

Phil lifts an eyebrow, looking briefly down at the mug he’s holding. “It would appear so.”

“Great,” Dan says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the sarcasm. It takes a moment for the implication of this to sink in, given that Louise couldn’t have made it for him, but when it does, Dan narrows his eyes. “How?”

“It’s an instant coffee,” Phil says, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh,” Dan says, then his stomach flips. He’s going to have to ask, isn’t he? Oh, crap. “Would- would you like a macchiato?”

Phil assesses him carefully, setting his book down. “Alright,” he says after a moment.

Oh no. Dan’s been practicing like mad for two days with Louise, but he’s still not totally confident about his aptitude with the coffee machine. Nevertheless, he’s offered now, and he has to grant the request of the customer, no exceptions. Bracing himself for ridicule, or possibly just a sneer of contempt, Dan nods, and disappears into the kitchen.

He makes four different macchiatos, each of which seem to turn out slightly differently, much to his dismay. He tries to time the frothing of the milk, to clean the nozzle rigorously each time. In the end, he just selects the one that most resembles Louise’s perfect macchiatos that she can seem to whip up without looking, and takes a deep breath before bringing it out to Phil. He’s trembling as he places it down on the table, which Phil definitely notices, but doesn’t comment on, thankfully.

Phil peers at the coffee, scrutinising, then brings it to his nose for a gentle sniff. “Remembered the caramel this time, then,” he mutters, and Dan only just stops himself from finding the caramel syrup in the kitchen and upending it over his head.

Phil takes a cautious sip, then another, and then an actual gulp. He lowers the mug, eyebrows raised, and places it carefully back on the table. Dan only realises he’s hovering, watching Phil’s reaction with hawk-like attention, when Phil fixes him with a bemused stare and says, “thanks.”

He turns his attention back to his book, and Dan realises he’s being dismissed. “Oh. No problem.”

He steps back with an absurd little bow of his head; Phil might let out a tiny smile, but Dan can’t be sure if it’s because he thinks Dan’s an idiot, or because of something amusing in his book. Either way, he needs to leave before he humiliates himself properly. He heads back into the kitchen and unearths one of Louise’s homemade loaves of bread, which he then cuts four thick slices of. He toasts them under the grill, then spreads them with butter and plum jam. He puts two on one plate, and two on another, then carries them out of the kitchen. He places one plate down in front of Phil, who looks up in surprise, and then scurries downstairs to reception with his own plate before Phil can say anything. Dan eats his breakfast in between chores - sweeping the lobby, unlocking the doors, and setting up for the day.

Eventually, he runs out of things to do, and though he really would rather not go back upstairs and make more embarrassing small talk with Phil, he has no other choice. He picks up his empty plate from the desk, and heads back up to the mezzanine area. Mercifully, Phil’s table is now devoid of Phil, though his book and mugs are still there. He’s taken two bites out of one slice of toast. It’s been a while though, so Dan assumes he must have finished, and takes the plate into the kitchen along with his own. It seems a waste to throw an entire untouched piece of toast into the bin, so Dan scoffs that one too, humming a Muse song as he chews, and washing plates. As he’s swallowing the last bit, he hears the sound of a throat clearing, and turns, only slightly choking on toast crumbs, towards the noise.

Phil is at the serving hatch, his big crimson ski jacket on, and a faintly amused expression on his face. He pushes the two mugs across the hatch. “What is that you’re humming?” He frowns, as if trying to place it. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, it’s a Muse song.” Dan’s hands are soapy, dripping at his sides. He shakes the suds off them, self-consciously.

“Right,” Phil says. “Never liked Muse. All their songs sound the same.”

Another reason to detest this fool. Clearly he has no taste in music. Aside from… classical, perhaps.

“Each to their own,” Dan says in an attempt at brightness, then walks over to collect the dirty mugs from him. Just as he turns to leave, Phil reaches out and catches Dan’s wrist. It’s a light, soft touch, and is gone again the next second, but Dan feels as if he’s been zapped with 10,000 volts. He freezes, just about managing to hang onto the cups. “Er-”

“Come skiing with me,” Phil says, knocking Dan out of orbit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter Six coming next Friday!)


	6. Chapter 6

For a moment, no words will come. The blood in Dan’s wrist pulses in odd, shifting patterns beneath the skin. He swallows, caught on the edge of a gelid blue stare. “I… can’t.”

“You can’t  _ski_?” Phil asks, his sneer an anchor that yanks Dan back down from the astral plane into which Phil’s touch had propelled him.   

“Of course I  _can_  ski,” he retorts, bristling. He chooses not to mention that he hasn’t skied since he was fourteen, when his family went to Chamonix for a week, and his mum and dad complained the entire time that it was too cold. At a  _ski lodge_. “But I have to… y’know, work. Hotel stuff.”

Mesmerised by the slight twitch of the corner of Phil’s mouth, which still doesn’t quite count as a smile, Dan’s hostile stance falters, then wanes. Like it’s a perfume wafting from Phil’s skin through the air between them, in the next second Dan smells the imminence of his own surrender.  

“Come on,” Phil says, his voice quiet, like it’s just for Dan. It doesn’t seem to matter that nobody else could have heard him anyway. “What else are you gonna do all day? Cook lunch for the hotel ghosts? Sit at reception and pretend you’re not playing on your phone?”

A spurt of blood shoots into Dan’s cheeks; he’d thought he was so stealthy, hiding his phone under the desk as he attempted to load a single meme at a time on Tumblr mobile, using tenuous 3G.

“I- I don’t have any skis,” Dan says lamely.

“Lucky for you that my old ones were repaired by the elusive hotel elf, then,” Phil quips, already stepping away. “I’ll meet you by the front door, shall I?”

He’s gone before Dan can muster up a further refusal. He stands gormless in the middle of the kitchen, gazing around at the pristine surfaces. If only he’d resisted the urge to clean everything already, then he could at least have the excuse of needing to scrub the day away. Perhaps he could quickly throw open all the cupboard doors, ransack the fridge and hurl ingredients and coffee everywhere, feigning a wolf had snuck in somehow, or a snow leopard. 

An image flashes into Dan’s mind, of Mona’s deepening frown as Phil explained to her that not only did Dan let some wild animal break in and contaminate the kitchen, but that he also refused to grant the one request of the only guest. He shudders, closing the door on that image before it can develop. Mona is already far too close to a stark realisation of Dan’s utter hopelessness; despite the words of any fortune-telling crows, a voice lingers at the back of Dan’s mind, assuring him that it’s only a matter of time before he slips up and disappoints everyone. His only hope is to stall that inevitability for as long as possible. 

Plus Phil is, annoyingly, right. There is nothing else for Dan to do today; he and Mona did a deep clean of the whole hotel before she left, and the place is spotless. With no guests to look after, and a low chance of anyone phoning given that the Swiss news helpfully predicted a terrifying blizzard, Dan really is at a loose end.  

It takes about two minutes of dithering in the kitchen before he has to admit defeat. Dan lets out a dreaded sigh, pushing all the air from his lungs, and then goes to wash up the two mugs he’s still holding. As he’s scrubbing the coffee stains, he decides that caffeine is the only acceptable (or available) drug he can utilise to get through whatever lies in store, so he places the mugs on the drying rack, and rinses out a thermos flask he finds, along with Louise’s percolator. He makes the coffee very strong, pours it into the flask, then thinks for a moment, and adds a dollop of soya milk. 

*

As soon as he opens his chest of drawers, Dan is struck once again by how ill-prepared he is for a sudden, impulsive foray into the snowy wilderness. As he lacks proper ‘ski-wear’ - whatever that might be - Dan Instead chooses to go for layers. A clingy t-shirt that barely fit him when he was sixteen, then a baggier, long-sleeved t-shirt. He covers these with a shapeless grey jumper, then a black jacket, and then, finally his warmest coat. He adds thick socks, a hat, boots, sunglasses, gloves and a scarf. By the time he feels he’s ready, his arms stick out stiffly from his sides, but he figures that a little loss of movement is a fair price to pay for not getting frostbite. 

He slots the flask into one of the deep pockets of his coat, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do. Or with whom. He deliberately takes his time getting down to the lobby in order to prolong the inevitable, and also because he likes the idea of the Fresh Prince of the Alps having to wait for him. Phil lowers his phone as Dan approaches, pushing off from where he’s leant against the wall. It takes a moment for him to drink in the sight of Dan, and then his eyebrows shoot up, and he seems to swallow something suspiciously close to a laugh. 

“Err, think you’ll be warm enough?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t exactly pack for extreme sports.”

Phil just makes a ‘hmm’ noise, turning to the collection of skis and poles leaning against the wall. “Not sure cross-country skiing could be classed as an extreme sport, but you do y- er, suit yourself.”

If Dan tries to reply, he’ll probably swear, so he clamps his mouth shut, and sticks an arm out to grab for the the red skis. Phil snatches them up first. 

“I’ll wear these,” he says. “You take the new ones.”

He doesn’t look at Dan, just pushes the shiny new skis into his hands. Bewildered, Dan stares at his warped reflection in the electric blue varnish. 

“What? Why?”

It takes a minute for Phil to respond; he’s tugging at the repaired bracket on the red ski, seemingly to test its durability. This alone is enough to make Dan want to slap it out of his hands. Then, he turns to Dan, that vague almost-smile still tucked beneath his smug expression. 

“Haven’t tested the new ones out yet,” he says with a shrug. “Reckon it’d be better for my caddy to fall on his face than me, right?”

Dan splutters, outraged. “ _Caddy?_ ”

“Grab those ski poles for us, would you?” Phil asks, a spritz of amusement perfuming his words. 

Dan might be intrigued by the lightness of his tone if it weren’t for the fact he were quietly steaming inside his many layers. The heating in this place does not fuck about. Worried he’ll boil alive unless they get outside soon, Dan chooses to just do as he’s asked. If Phil insists on calling him a caddy again, at least Dan will have four long weapons to wield. Dan gathers the four poles up in his arms as best he can, along with his own skis; on the verge of dropping everything, he opts for speed, and scurries after Phil out of the front door.

“If you expect me to haul all of this up some peak or other-”

Dan can’t see, as he’s got a number of pointed objects obscuring his view, so he doesn’t realise that Phil has stopped directly in front of him, a few paces beyond the door. Dan bumps straight into him, and instantly everything he’s holding drops to the ground. When he looks up, Phil is aiming an exasperated gaze down at the pile of poles and skis, as if he’s already regretting inviting Dan along.

“No, I don’t expect you to actually be my pack mule. We’re going to  _wear_  our skis,” Phil explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

He’s already got his skis laid neatly out in front of him - two bright red parallel lines striking through the snow. As Dan watches confusedly, Phil pushes the tip of his right boot into one of the skis. Dan’s stomach squeezes with discomfort; he’d been correct before, when repairing the skis. The fastenings are not the same as he’s used to.  

“Erm,” Dan says, moving his attention to one of his own skis, laying at an angle in the snow. It has the same unfamiliar fastening, much to his dismay. 

Mind racing to figure out every option available to him that doesn’t involve swallowing his pride and asking Phil for help, Dan moves to inspect the contraption. As if he’s sensed Dan’s incompetence, Phil drops into a crouch anyway, and reaches for Dan’s boot. Instinctively, Dan jerks his foot away. Phil lifts his head to look at Dan. Viewing him from this angle is strange. From this perspective, he seems hunched, small, insignificant. He has none of his Lordly airs about him, hunched down in the snow near Dan’s feet. Phil doesn’t say anything, he just waits, hand calmly outstretched towards Dan’s boot. Wordlessly, Dan moves his foot back into Phil’s reach, and watches as Phil carefully rights the ski, then pulls his foot towards it. He fits the toe of Dan’s boot into the unusual strap. 

“They’re telemark skis,” Phil says, tightening the strap around the ball of Dan’s foot. “I’m guessing you’re more used to Alpine skis? They’re the ones with the strap at the back as well.”

Dan bristles again at the condescending tone. “I’m familiar with both,” he says, because he’s a stubborn moron. Phil says nothing, but that near-smile returns as he reaches for Dan’s other foot; Dan wobbles slightly as Phil guides it into the left ski. “But, uh, it’s been a while. So... remind me again of the difference between, er, telemark and…”

“Alpine,” Phil supplies, standing up. He holds Dan’s gaze for a moment, and then laughs, short and quiet, but just enough for Dan to catch a glimpse of two rows of pearl-white teeth, with a flash of pink tongue caught between them. It’s the most Dan’s seen him smile yet, though he’s obviously laughing  _at_  Dan which isn’t ideal. “Telemark skis are designed so that you can wear them for both hiking and skiing. You can move your ankle in them, see?”

He demonstrates, twisting his un-strapped heel to and fro. Dan tries to do the same, and almost falls over. “Why do we need to use our ankles, exactly?”

Dan doesn’t remember skiing requiring a lot of joint movement. From what he can recall of his brief experience as a teenager, he strapped the skis on, let the lift drag him up a big hill, and gravity did a lot of the work getting him to the bottom again.

Phil is full-on smirking now. Dan thinks he preferred the non-smile. “You may have noticed that we don’t have chairlifts up here. We’ll be hiking to the slopes on foot. I’ve put skins on the bottom of these to give us more grip, but we can take them off when we get there.”

Dan tries not let the alarm show on his face. They’re going to be walking up hills? In skis? “And... I suppose once we ski down the slope we’ll be having to...” 

“Walk back up again? Yes. Unless you fancy setting up camp down there.” 

An ill-timed image of the Brokeback Mountain tent attacks Dan so viciously it nearly knocks him sideways. “No! No, no. Walking back up. Cool. Good thing I’ve been practicing with those bloody hotel stairs, right?” 

Dan forces a laugh, but this time Phil’s face remains unmoved. Clearly it’s only Dan’s unintentional idiocy that can procure a genuine smile from him then, right. 

Phil looks to the sky briefly, seeming to assess something in the heavens themselves, and asks, “ready to go, then?”

He doesn’t wait for Dan’s reply. He picks up his ski poles, then turns and begins sort of slide-walking away from the hotel, in seemingly no particular direction. There’s a large thicket of trees ahead of him, but then there are thickets of trees in a few other directions too. Nevertheless, Dan has no choice but to trust this man’s sense of direction, so attempts to move after him; to his horror, his legs immediately split apart in a move he is certainly not flexible enough to achieve. He manages to stab his ski poles into the earth and rectify himself before pulling anything, but in doing so he flails, and almost falls. Luckily, he’s gotten back into a reasonably dignified standing position by the time Phil turns to him, wondering what the hold up is.

“Sorry,” Dan says, making a valiant attempt to copy Phil’s movements exactly as he inches forwards again. It works, sort of, though he doesn’t do it anywhere near as gracefully as Phil seems to be able to. When he gets to Phil, he shrugs, like he’s totally fine. “Just… admiring the view,” he explains. “Lead on.”

*

It takes over thirty gruelling minutes to cross the plains of the mountain in pursuit of a supposedly safe ski-area, but eventually they reach an abrupt dip, where the mountain begins its gradual slope downward. This close to the edge of the mountain, the view is breathtaking. Dan can’t focus on it, however, because his thighs ache, the moisture in his lungs has turned to ice and is freezing him from the inside out, and for the last twenty minutes, Phil Novokoric has been unhelpfully telling him everything he’s doing wrong with the stupid ‘telemark’ skis.

“Is this where we do some actual skiing then?” Dan asks crossly, jamming his poles into the snow.

He’s so glad to get to a point where he actually knows what he’s doing that he’s already shuffling up to the edge of the slope, more than ready to get this over with. He’s so keen, in fact, that he’s only just about saved from teetering over the edge and hurtling down in an enormous cartoon-style snowball, by a far more sensible Phil. He grabs Dan by the hood of his coat before he can topple to his untimely death.

“Careful!” he exclaims as he yanks Dan backwards. Yet again, the irritating warning is at least ten seconds too late. Dan has already been an idiot; unless Phil expects him to travel back in time to ten seconds ago, and take heed of Phil’s caution. Phil pulls him so sharply that Dan jolts backwards, skis slotting between Phil’s as his back crashes against his chest. His heart pounds incessantly. Or maybe that’s Phil’s heart. “Are you some kind of moron?” Phil asks, then pauses, like he’s actually waiting for an answer. “Just  _wait_ a minute, we’ve got to take our skins off. Then  _I’ll_  lead the way.”

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” Dan mutters, carefully sliding away from Phil whilst trying not to accidentally fall down the slope. 

Sulkily, he stands to the side and watches as Phil removes one ski, and peels a thin black strip from the underside, then does the same to the other. Dan copies his action in silence, though he has no idea why on earth this is necessary. Phil monitors Dan wordlessly, but thankfully makes no judgemental comments.  

“Ready?” he asks once Dan has his de-skinned skis back on. 

Dan shoves the bunched up skins into his jacket pocket.  _No_. “Yep.”

And then, with enviable ease, Phil pushes himself over the edge of the slope, and begins drifting downwards, swaying gracefully to and fro as he descends. Somewhat alarmed by how quickly that just happened, Dan swallows his nerves and shoots after him. It’s  _terrifying_. 

Dan hasn’t experienced this level of self-propelled velocity for years, let alone the searing chill that whips his cheeks, or the sensation of being at once in control of his own speed, and simultaneously ill-equipped to do so. He grips his ski poles tightly, attempting to copy Phil’s swooping motions up ahead, leaning left and right as much as he dares in order to slow his pace. The slope had not looked particularly steep from the top, but Dan should probably have been more concerned about the amount of debris on the path that he has to keep swerving to avoid. Annoyingly, Phil was completely right in insisting he went first, as otherwise Dan would have crashed several times into boulders and tree stumps and icy patches.

It can’t last particularly long, but it seems to Dan that he’s skiing, teeth gritted, eyes frozen open, for hours. Eventually however, the slope evens out, and flattens enough that they slow to a stop. Somewhere in the recesses of Dan’s brain, he scrounges up his knowledge of how to point the tips of his skis together to halt himself. Phil does some kind of impressive, sudden, 90 degree turning move, but he doesn’t outright laugh at Dan’s less stylish method, thankfully.

Dan is just about to collapse to the floor and weep, relieved he survived that and didn’t so much as fall over once, when Phil pulls off his sunglasses, and gives Dan the widest, most brilliant grin. His teeth are as white as the snow surrounding them. Seeing such animation on his usually sullen features is so unexpected that Dan swears his heart literally skips a beat, though that might be on account of all the adrenaline from plummeting down the side of a mountain. Dan removes his own sunglasses, somewhat shakily, and aims a tentative smile back at him.

“Not bad,” Phil says, eyes bright and crystalline in the light. “If you did some fitness training, you might be halfway decent.”

The smile wipes itself away again. “Thanks,” Dan mutters.

“What did you think?” Phil asks, elbow resting on one of his upright ski poles. He’s a tiny bit breathless, which gives his words a whisperish quality. In another setting that wasn’t as eerily silent, it might be difficult to hear him. “Fun, right?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Dan replies, heart still pounding at double his normal rate.

Phil chuckles. “This is probably the gentlest path I’ve found.”

“Found?”

“Yeah. I can’t be certain of course, but I doubt anyone else has ever skied up here.” He grins again, jarring and hypnotic. “I’m the Columbus of the Alps.”

This seems highly unlikely. Dan’s no expert in mountaineering, but surely other adventurers have come up and explored the mountain before now. Phil being the first one to ever scope out reasonably skiable pathways seems incredibly dangerous, and probably illegal.

“Are you, like, allowed?”

Phil shrugs, slipping his shades back on. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

It’s this offhanded, entitled flippancy that Dan detests about the rich. He chooses not to respond to such an irritating question, and instead asks, “so, what now?”

“Climb back up,” Phil says, already pulling his skins from his pocket. “Unless you wanna check out one of the trickier slopes?”

“No, thank you,” Dan says tightly.

Phil chuckles again. “Alright then, skins on, Howell.”

*

In hindsight, Dan should really have given more thought to the idea of climbing back up the hill they’d just skied down, in skis. To say it was difficult would have been generous. By the time they reach the top (it shouldn’t go unmentioned that Phil was much, much quicker than Dan at getting back up, and then shouted helpful suggestions of how he should turn his heels, or dig his skis in to the snow from the summit) Dan is so exhausted he never wants to lift another limb in his life, let alone slide down a hill just to climb it yet again. Phil is raring to go, of course, but Dan simply unfastens his skis and falls back onto his bum, unconcerned that the snow immediately begins seeping into the seat of his trousers, and gestures for the other man to go on without him.

“Suit yourself,” Phil says, snickering, and pushes over the edge.

From his position, Dan is able to watch as Phil airily glides down. It’s obvious, from this vantage point, that skiing gives Phil an air of freedom that he lacks in everyday life. His limbs are loosened of their usual tension, and even from a distance Dan can see that he is calm and happy. As Phil re-climbs the slope, Dan peels off the weird skins from the underside of his skis again and studies them for a bit, then stuffs them into his pocket, deciding they’re just flaps of fabric you could make in five seconds, probably sold in sports shops at an absurd cost. He then attempts to browse the internet on his phone, though given that they’re currently in the middle of absolutely nowhere, this does not go well. He quickly abandons any attempt to check his Facebook feed, and plays Crossy Road until a shadow washes over him. He looks up just as Phil slumps down beside him, panting.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” Phil says between breaths. “Usually I do this about twenty times, up and down. On the steeper slopes, too.”

Dan snorts. “Excuse me, but screw that. Nobody told me there’d be climbing involved. Give me a terrifying ski lift any day.”

“Anywhere there’s a ski lift there’s a hundred tourists crammed on, waiting to dawdle in front of you on the slope on the way down.”

Again, Dan doesn’t remember this being particularly true from his previous skiing experience. On the red and black runs, there were only a handful of other people to avoid. He can see nothing wrong with something being made safe by professionals. Deciding it’s probably wise to keep this thought to himself in order to keep the peace, Dan instead digs the flask of coffee out of his pocket, pulls both the plastic cups off the top, and hands one to Phil.

“So you’ve skied in a lot of places, then?” he asks.

Phil is looking down at the cup like Dan just pulled it out of his rear end. “Er… yeah. Quite a lot.”

Dan ignores the curious expression being aimed at him, and just focuses on pouring out the coffee. He’d remembered at the last minute to bring sugar for Phil, so he digs out the packets from his pocket, and presses them into Phil’s free hand along with a wooden stirrer.

“Cool,” Dan says. “Where abouts?”

For a moment, Phil says nothing. It’s as though he’s forgotten how to move, or speak. Dan just waits, the warmth of the coffee cup in his hands starting to spread through his gloved fingers, melting the stiffness. He sips his own coffee until Phil regains composure and pours the sugar in.

“Uh, lots of places. My family used to go every year at Christmas.” He stirs the coffee slowly, gazing out at the thick, snow-frosted trees lining the slope. “I’ve been to Andorra, Saalbach Chamonix…”

This peaks Dan’s attention. “Chamonix? I’ve been there.”

Phil’s eyes go round. “Oh my God… I knew I recognised you.”

Dan’s stomach drops. “W-what?” Surely this cannot be happening.

“The New Year’s Eve party…” he gushes, placing a hand on Dan’s shoulder.  _Fuck, fuck, fuck, abort, abort, abort_. “There was karaoke... we were dragged on stage to sing a duet…”

For a split second, Dan’s mind is hurtling in circles as he tries to remember any such awful event, and then he notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, the glimmer of obvious teasing lurking in his expression. Right as Dan’s about to grab a handful of snow and smash it into that obnoxious mocking face, Phil clutches his chest and belts out, “this is the  _start_  of something  _newww_!”

Dan groans, eyes rolling so far backwards he can see the folds of his brain. “As  _if_  you’re making an actual High School Musical reference right now.”

“Hey, you’re the one that got it,” Phil points out, giggling softly.

“You’re so irritating,” Dan mutters, sipping more coffee.

The snow has officially soaked all the way through his trousers, and his bum has gone entirely numb from the cold. If he has to sit here and listen to Phil’s annoying, posh-boy teasing for a second longer, he’s going to ski directly into a nearby tree.

“Are you supposed to call your guests irritating?”

Dan fights a smile, hiding his mouth in his cup. “Depends how much they piss me off.”

This makes Phil laugh; a sound Dan is sure he will never grow used to. “At least I have a dry bum right now. Your idea of appropriate ski attire is as shocking as your technique.”

“You know what?” Dan says brightly, and stands up. He pretty much instantly regrets doing so as the cold water that’s been soaking his bum for the last half hour trickles down the backs of his thighs. He chucks the remainder of his coffee into the snow, and pockets the cup along with the flask. “Being the official laughing stock of the slopes is not part of my job description. It’s been a blast, Mr Novokoric, but I have a hotel to run, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“Ooh, back to Mr Novokoric, is it?” Phil asks, standing up as well. He drains the last of his own coffee, and gathers his ski poles. “Hang on then, let me-”

“No, no,” Dan says, swishing his ski pole at Phil as he tries to slide closer. “I’m clearly stopping you from throwing yourself down some more death-defying hills or whatever. I can get back to the hotel on my own just fine.”

He shoves his feet back into the skis one by one, thankfully able to tighten them to his feet without help this time, and then awkwardly shuffles around to face the direction they came from. There’s a bit of a hill ahead, but in comparison to the one he climbed up not long ago it looks tiny, so he slides towards it with determination.

“Dan, hold on,” Phil says impatiently, still strapping himself back into his own skis. “You can’t just-”

“I said I’m  _fine_ ,” Dan says through gritted teeth. In truth however, gaining any sort of momentum on this incline seems a lot harder than it had been previously. “Just go do your thing.”

He’s about halfway up the small hill, and he feels alarmingly unsteady. The skis seem to have a mind of their own, and keep threatening to slide out from under him. Dan just shoves his ski poles into the snow as hard as possible, using them to help drag him upwards.

“Dan,” Phil is calling from somewhere behind him. “Can you stop being so pig-headed for a minute? You’ve forgotten-”

Dan cuts him off with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as his right ski slips sharply backwards, splitting his legs wishbone-style. With the help of his ski pole, he manages not to rip his own crotch in half, but the back of his right ski crosses over his left, and in trying to correct it, Dan falls backwards. His right ankle seems to not want to cooperate with the angle Dan is toppling, and twists beneath him; his boot still being attached to the ski, this hurts like a motherfucker.

“Shit! Ow, ow ow-”

Pain, scorching and sudden, shoots up Dan’s leg. His ankle is bent somehow beneath him, and it’s agony. He only has mere seconds to revel in the pain however, as then hands are on the strap of his ski, scrambling to unattach him, and blissfully his ankle pops free.

“I told you to wait for me!” Phil shouts, though the sound is fuzzy and distant from the leftover cloud of pain hazing Dan’s senses. “You forgot to put your skins back on, you idiot.” Dan barely understands, too focused on his throbbing ankle. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes it bloody hurts!” Dan snaps, clutching the ankle. "What kind of idiotic question is that?!”

“Let me see.”

“What? No!”

“Dan, I need to see how bad it is.”

“It’s fine,” Dan protests, but Phil is already picking at the knot of his laces, clearly not listening.

As he reluctantly surrenders to Phil’s insistence on acting the hero, Dan realises for the first time just how… close he is. At this level of proximity, it’s possible to detect notes of the shampoo Phil uses dancing on the thin, icy breeze. Coconut, possibly. Or watermelon? In the distraction of trying to place the smell, Dan doesn’t realise what’s happening until his laces are untied, and Phil begins carefully pulling off his boot. He removes his gloves, and blows quickly on his hands before reaching out and rolling down Dan’s thick sock. Something about this whole scenario is so intimate that Dan wants to squirm. Presumably, he’d only blown on his fingers to warm them - to ease Dan’s discomfort. Dan wouldn’t expect such consideration from his own mother, let alone this dick-brain. To stifle his drumming heart, Dan bites down on his lip, and turns his face away.

“Looks swollen,” Phil mutters as he pulls the sock down. Gently, he presses the pads of his fingers to the puffed, pink skin around Dan’s ankle. It doesn’t hurt any more than the existing pain, but Dan twitches nonetheless, and Phil’s blisteringly blue eyes flick up to his. “It doesn’t feel broken. Do you think you could stand on it?”

Experimentally, Dan tries wiggling his toes. It’s unpleasant, sure, but not completely unbearable. “I’ll try,” he says, attempting bravery.

Phil begins rolling his sock back up. “Good choice,” he says, reaching for the boot. “It’s just you and me up here, so unless you fancy spending the night in minus six degrees under the stars, I’d advise hopping if you can. It’ll start getting dark in a few hours.”

“Gee, thanks for the sympathy,” Dan snorts, batting Phil’s hands away to re-tie his laces.

Phil waits, saying nothing, and when Dan is done, he holds out his hand. For a moment Dan just stares at it. He’s seconds away from slipping his own hand into it, when Phil says, “your skins? I’ll put them back on for you.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, hoping Phil doesn’t notice his odd behaviour. He has no clue what the fuck this mountain air is doing to him recently. He digs in his pocket and pulls out the skins, then shoves them into Phil’s hand. “Cheers.” 

*

“You’re much more… bony than you look,” Phil huffs. 

They’re about halfway through the hideous journey back, as far as Dan can tell. Approximately three minutes in, Dan had realised that attempting to walk on his own, wearing the damn ‘telemark’ skis, was not an option.

“I apologise sincerely for having bones,” Dan replies scornfully. In truth, he feels like a pile of boneless goo, so it’s surprising that Phil seems to think he’s the opposite. His arm is wound around Phil’s shoulders, allowing Dan to lean a great deal of his weight onto the other man. He’s got one ski on, the other is in his right hand. Phil is carrying all four ski poles, tucked under his arm. 

They’ve been moving at a torturously slow pace, so the sun is already dipping towards the horizon at their backs. Even in the space of a few hours, Dan can feel the drop in temperature, and it wasn’t exactly warm before. They were lucky, in a way, that Dan’s little accident had happened whilst there was still a lot of light left. He leans closer into Phil’s body heat, hoping the other man doesn’t notice.

“Are you cold?”

Crap. “Um, a bit.”

They hobble further on in silence. Dan wonders what the purpose of Phil’s question might have been, as now he seems to be deliberating something silently. Please, God, don’t say that Phil Novokoric is about to hand over his snow jacket to invalid-Dan so he can tell the story of his chivalry to some doe-eyed journalist months from now. 

In a way, Dan is almost glad when Phil, predictably, says, “another reason to invest in some proper thermals. Might have been an idea, considering you’re living up a snowy mountain.”

“Noted,” Dan says through gritted teeth. Finally, the sight of the hotel crests the horizon, some way off still, but at least within view. “Thank the fucking Lord,” he mutters under his breath.  

“You could get on my back for the last bit, if you like,” Phil suggests, tone lilting into something like a tease.

“You’re alright, thanks,” Dan replies tersely. He sincerely wishes he could extricate himself from this infuriating human and sprint the rest of the way back, but unfortunately he thinks he might snap his own ankle off, brittle as it is now from the cold. “Can we just focus on getting to the hotel without any further injuries, please?”

“Sure,” Phil says, then effortlessly hitches Dan’s arm a little higher across his shoulders, taking on significantly more of his weight. For a reason Dan refuses to analyse, this action makes his stomach flip multiple times, but he has no time to dwell on the how’s or why’s, because Phil has doubled the pace now, near-dragging Dan along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven coming next Friday!


	7. Chapter 7

The minute Dan’s skis are pried off, he limps across the lobby to the reception desk, and flops down into the seat, groaning. “Never again.”

“If you’re expecting an apology for ‘forcing’ you to come skiing-”

“No, no,” Dan says, suppressing an eye roll. “It was my own stupid fault, I know that. Should’ve listened about the bloody skins.”

As if this has reminded him, Phil turns back to where they’ve rested their skis against the wall, and begins peeling off the skins from the undersides. “How’s the ankle feeling now?”

“Like it’s caught in a steel vice, and someone’s slowly grinding the crank,” Dan replies, lifting his foot onto his knee so he can examine it for himself.

“Were you a drama kid at school, by any chance?”

Dan shoots a glare towards Phil, but it only glances off his back as he makes his way to the stairs. “See you later, then,” Dan mutters.

Phil pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues on his way without turning round. For a few minutes, Dan prods and turns his ankle experimentally, testing the limits of his flexibility. If he's unable to get up and down those stairs, he’s in huge trouble. He’s so focused on the ankle that he doesn’t notice Phil reappearing until the bottom stair creaks. In his hand he’s got an ice pack, which he hands to Dan across the desk, wordlessly.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Ice it for twenty minutes or so,” Phil instructs. “Should help with the swelling.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dan mutters, hardly listening as he wraps the long pack around the injured area.

“Then I think we should go in the hot tub.”

“Yeah, ok- woah, what?”

Phil now has both forearms on the lip of the desk; there’s that hint of a hidden smile tucked beneath his expression. “Soaking it for a while would help with the pain.”

“And you need to accompany me because…?”

Like a ray of sunlight through thick storm clouds, Phil’s smile breaks through. He leans up, rolling his shoulders. “I just heaved your bony body a mile across mountain. My muscles could use a soak too.”

Chastened, Dan shrinks into his seat. “Right. Of course, sorry.”

“Worried I’m going to ogle you?”

“N-no! I just… I dunno, I don’t think I’m even supposed to go in the hot tub. I’m not a guest.”

“I won’t tell,” Phil says, then actually  _winks._  He stretches his arms behind his back then, chest puffing out, and says, “right, I’m gonna grab a drink and change. Meet you out there?”

“Oh, I should get that for you-”

“Dan, you’re literally hobbled. I can handle getting a drink out of the kitchen fridge.”

Dan nods, grateful for this small allowance. “Right. Um, fine then. I’ll… I’ll meet you out there.”

Phil leaves, heading once more for the stairs, and Dan watches him intently, stomach freely somersaulting as he tries to imagine how the next few hours of his life will go, sat in a hot tub with Phil Novokoric. What will they talk about? The weather? There’s only so much to say when it’s perpetually freezing. What have they even been talking about all day so far? Dan doesn’t remember many  awkward silences, but he does remember a lingering feeling of frustration beneath every word they spoke to one another.

The throbbing in his ankle has been blurring Dan’s thoughts into a mess of confusion, particularly on the journey back, but now that the ice pack has begun numbing the pain, all Dan can remember is the sensation of being tucked so tightly against Phil’s side. For a long time, they’d been closely pressed together, and Phil hadn’t so much as complained. Well, he’d said that Dan was ‘bony’, but it sounded more like an excuse to speak than a real objection.

For several minutes, Dan replays the long walk back he and Phil shared, trying to remember everything he’d said, and whether he should be embarrassed or regretful. It’s only when he glances at the clock on the wall that he realises time is ticking by, and he’s still fully dressed right down to his coat. With a panicked look towards the mezzanine, he removes the ice pack and stands carefully, managing to limp his way to the side of the room, where the stock cupboard is, tucked out of sight behind a hidden door in the wood-panelled wall.

In here, he finds a fresh robe, a pair of white swim trunks, and some of the hotel branded slippers. Mona ensures that all of these items are available to guests that might have overlooked packing certain essentials. It’s surprising how often they’re asked for spare swimwear that guests have forgotten in a haste to make their plane. Dan didn’t bring any swim trunks with him because he’d never imagined he’d need them up here, so spares it is. He carries the garments into Mona’s office, peeling off his many layers  and slipping on the trunks.

He already feels alarmingly naked, so dons the slippers and robe, tying it tightly. Before he leaves the office, he catches sight of himself in Mona’s small, square mirror tacked to the wall. His hair is wild, mussed up by the hat he’d been wearing, so he runs a hand through it, though it makes virtually no difference. His lips seem fuller, pinkened by the icy chill, and his cheeks have a flush to them that won’t seem to go away. He doesn’t think it’s his rosacea, this time.

Turning from his reflection abruptly, Dan focuses on making his way out of the office, then through the lobby to the back door without injuring himself further. Through a technique Dan decides is called ‘furniture balancing’ he manages to get himself to the back door without putting much weight on his right foot.

When he gets outside, Phil is already in the jacuzzi. It’s an in-ground tub, hexagonal in shape, with wooden skirting that Dan has to go over with a large broom and sweep the snow off every morning. There’s a bottle of champagne sat on this skirting, and two glasses beside Phil’s elbow, which rests out of the water.

He turns to Dan, hearing his slow, limping approach. “Thought you’d chickened out,” he says.

“It’s freezing,” Dan says, teeth already chattering.

Why had he not thought about the fact he’s got virtually no clothes on before now? He wraps his robe tighter around himself. The hairs on his legs are totally erect and he feels like the moisture in his eyes is freezing over.

“Hence the hot tub,” Phil says, snorting.

Dan rolls his eyes, but edges closer, hands tucked into his armpits. Crap, Phil is… very naked. He has swim trunks on obviously, a deep red blur beneath the water, but Dan can see every hair brushed across his broad chest. He can see the soft bulges of his arm muscles, and collarbones and shoulder blades and long, pale legs. Dan doesn’t realise he’s staring until Phil meets his eyes.

“Are you doing some delayed satisfaction kink-thing? Get in before you contract hypothermia.”

Blushing mostly at hearing Phil say ‘kink’ which seems somehow unsavoury and titillating at once, Dan says nothing, but tugs at the knot of his robe. He turns away as he removes it, and throws it over the handlebar of the steps, on top of Phil’s. He shucks off his slippers, wriggles his bruised ankle experimentally - the purpling colour looks far worse now - and then carefully plunges it into the water.

Instantly, relief overwhelms him, which is annoying, because it means Phil was right. He can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him even so, blissed out as the throbbing pain recedes, chased off by the pins-and-needles heat of the hot water. So as not to put any weight on the injured ankle, Dan sits down on the top step, and lowers himself in that way. When he’s submerged to his waist, he looks up and finds Phil watching him amusedly.

“Better?”

“The scalding-heat-freezing-cold combo is a nice distraction from the agony, yes.”

Phil titters, turning back to the view of the mountains in front of them. He picks up the bottle from behind him, and Dan can see the muscles in his back twisting and sliding. He has to force himself not to stare; it’s not because of any sexual desire of course, just that Dan’s so unused to seeing real muscle definition, honed by actual effort put in from exercise. When he turns back, Dan’s eyes fall to the bottle, and he balks.

“Isn’t that like a five-hundred-euro bottle of champagne?”

“Relax,” Phil says, peeling off the foil. “My  _hubby_  can cover it.”

There’s no mistaking the acidity in his tone. Dan hasn’t needed it spelled out for him so far, Phil’s reluctance and soured face whenever he mentions the name is enough to glean that the subject of Sir Nikolai Novokoric is off-limits. Dan clamps his mouth shut obediently, watching as Phil pops the cork, and pours some into one of the glasses, then takes the other, and pours some into that too.

He hands one to Dan, who takes it, baffled. “Wait, this is for me?”

Phil gives him a strange look. “Did you think I brought two glasses out here for myself?”

“Oh, well it’s kind of you but, um,” Dan falters, distracted by the cool drips of condensation forming on the outside of the glass. As he inhales, the sparkle of the champagne fizzes on his tongue, mingled with the chlorine steam. “I-I shouldn’t. I’m technically working.”

“Oh yes, I forgot you’ve got to stay alert for all the many guests that might need your assistance.”

Conflicted, Dan watches Phil tip some of the cool, bubbling liquid into his mouth. His prominent Adams apple bobs, and immediately all Dan can think is that he needs to be not-sober. He takes a sip.

“God, that’s divine,” Dan mutters, remembering as it slips down his throat that this champagne costs more than he has had in his bank account for some time. “Remind me to put this on your tab or Mona will freak out.”

“I can pay you for it right now in cash, if it’s easier,” Phil replies smoothly.

“How the other half live,” Dan can’t stop himself saying back.

Phil shoots him a narrow-eyed look that Dan avoids by sipping more champagne. “It’s not my money.”

With a great deal of effort, Dan manages not to respond to this ludicrous statement. If you marry someone, what’s theirs is yours. That’s just how it works. For a while, they stew in the painfully awkward silence this money-talk has churned up, sipping from their glasses and pretending to be engrossed in the view. Eventually, Phil shifts across his seat and reaches to a control pad, turning the jets on. The noise of the frothing, bubbling water obliterates the silence in a way that should be unsettling, but actually has Dan melting in relief. 

Over the cacophony, Phil shouts, “so, what’s your story then?”

Dan looks at him, surprised. “My story?” he asks, voice raised. 

“In my experience, people don’t tend to take jobs high up in the mountains on their own on a whim,” he says loudly.

“Actually,” Dan shouts, prickling with annoyance, “that’s exactly what I did.” 

This admission seems to give Phil enough reason to pause. For a moment, Dan doesn’t elaborate, relishing the look of surprise and intrigue on Phil’s face. He sips his drink, quietly basking in the cloak of enigma he’s draped around himself. Inevitably however, he can’t stand the silence stretching. He doesn’t particularly want to divulge details about his hideous life to someone he can barely stand, but the champagne is already loosening his tongue, and here, dwarfed by the enormous peaks ahead of them, his old existence and all its many aspects that once seemed so intolerable now seem... wholly insignificant. 

“I just looked around one day and realised… there’s not a single thing about my life that I truly enjoy,” Dan says, words spilling from his mouth like they’ve been gathered there for days, waiting for a chance to emerge. Bubbles tickle the back of his throat as he swallows another mouthful of delicious champagne. “So, I dropped it all. Hurled out a load of applications to customer service jobs in different places. I’ve worked in retail and waiting jobs part-time for years, so I knew I’d have no trouble landing one. Mona emailed me asking if I’d be up for something... remote, and I knew it was the dumbest thing I could possibly do. So I said yes.”

“And here you are,” Phil murmurs.

“Here I am,” Dan echoes.

“So what was it?”

“What was what?”

“What was it that wasn’t making you happy? Hated your boss? No one swiping right on your Tinder profile?”

Dan thinks about asking him exactly why it’s any of his damn business, but again that sense of his old life’s unimportance washes over him. It laps at his skin like the water he’s submerged in, reminding him of how small they are, how similarly ignored by the universe because of their size, their position on the planet. What does it even matter if he tells this man everything? He’s only asking to fill the time the two of them have got to kill whilst they’re alone up here. It’s not like Dan’s dull, mediocre story will mean anything to someone like Phil Novokoric; who would he bother to tell? Dan sinks a bit further down, so his shoulders are underwater, and tilts his head back to look into the sky.

“I was at university, studying law,” Dan says, mouth twisting into a frown as he remembers the endless thick piles of reading, the leather briefcase his Dad had bought for him to look ‘professional’. “I only chose it because my Dad told me it was a solid career path. I had a girlfriend. Met her at a party in the first week I was there. Honestly, I don’t think she even liked me that much. She just knew I was on track to be a lawyer, she found me attractive enough I guess, and that was enough for her.”

“Did you love her?”

Dan hesitates, the question seeming alien. He’s never actually thought about it before, he realises with a start. He wonders why Phil even wants to know such a strange, intimate detail. “Not in the way I should have,” he answers carefully. He pauses, wondering if he’s really about to say the next bit when he’s never been able to admit it aloud to anyone. Somehow, up here in the atmosphere, buoyed by alcohol and thin, oxygen-starved air, it just doesn’t seem like a big deal. “Turns out she’s not really… my type.”

The jets, on a two-minute timer, suddenly cease bubbling. The silence that follows, punctuated only by the slight swilling of water, is excruciating. The weight of his sort-of-admission seems to drag him deeper into the water; why had he said anything at all? Why had he just ripped off his shroud of anonymity for this sneery, snobbish stranger? Before Dan can explode into a full-blown panic attack, Phil chuckles. Dan sits up straight, staring at him in dismay.

“Are you coming out to me?” Phil asks. 

Dan splutters, reddening rapidly. “Are you  _laughing_  at me coming out to you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Phil says, though he’s  _still_  laughing. “It’s just a little...” 

“A little what?”

“Unnecessary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well. You’re not exactly subtle. I can tell you fancy me.”

Dan’s mouth falls open. “ _What_?!”

In response, Phil just holds Dan’s gaze as he downs the remains of his glass.

“That is- I absolutely do  _not_ -” Dan is so red that he feels like a slowly boiling lobster. Too outraged to trust himself to respond properly, Dan puts down his glass and splashily shimmies over to the steps, hauling himself out. “God, you are unbelievable!” he shouts as he goes. “Every time I think you might show a shade of decency, you just- just-”

“Dan,” Phil calls, a bubble of laughter in his voice.

Dan pauses, mostly because he’s finding it pretty difficult to make it up the steps in his crippled state. He turns, shivering with cold and fury, back to the man. Phil is staring at him with a combination of pity and amusement, which is an unusual thing to be able to recognise, though Dan is quickly learning that Phil’s face is deceptively expressive, but only when he deigns to actually show emotion.

“What?”

“I’m joking.”

The tension leaks, treacly and slow, from Dan’s shoulders. “Oh.”

Before Dan can beg the universe to create a whirlpool in this small hot tub and drown them both, Phil stands, water cascading from his body. He runs a hand through his damp hair, then picks up the bottle of champagne and his glass.

“Shall we move to the sauna?” he asks, steam rising from the miles of his flawless, pale skin.

Stung with residual anger and humiliation, Dan just nods tightly, and manages to manoeuvre himself, with a fair bit of difficulty, up the steps. Phil follows after, lithe with grace and poise, but he doesn’t attempt to overtake Dan as he makes his way across the short distance from the tub to the glass door of the sauna.

He does, however, dart his arm out to neatly pull the door open before Dan can reach out for it. He holds the door, allowing Dan to limp through, which is infuriatingly chivalrous of him, and Dan has a mind to tell him as much.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” he says, collapsing on the nearest wooden bench. Immediately, the moisture in his mouth dries up; this small room is ridiculously arid. He comes in once a day to clean it, but there are only four benches, stacked on two levels, so it never takes long. He’s never been good with heat, which is why he chose to disappear into the tundra rather than, say, the Indian Desert. “You don’t have to hold doors for me and bring me ice packs or whatever.”

Phil hands him his glass, which he must have scooped from the edge of the tub on his way. Dan scowls, but takes it anyway, and Phil pours some more champagne into it, then his own.

“God, you’re sensitive,” Phil says, slumping down onto the adjacent bench. “I embarrassed you, huh?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I just can’t, like, understand you. You make me feel on edge.” Phil raises an eyebrow, sipping his drink. “That doesn’t mean I bloody fancy you though, jeez. You’re married. And a dick-brain.”

Phil laughs. “Dick-brain?”

Dan lowers his glass, displeased with himself for letting that one slip. “Prob’ly shouldn’t have said that out loud. Sorry.”

“So, you think I’m a dick-brain, but you just haven’t said it out loud until now?”

“Um.” Dan shifts in his too-hot seat; the backs of his thighs are sticking to the wood. He turns to the burning coals in the corner, wondering if throwing himself upon them would be too dramatic.

“Look, would it help if I divulged some personal crap too? Might help you to relax,” Phil suggests.

“Am I not normally relaxed?”

Phil shakes his head, then leans back against the wall. “Nah, you’re kind of…” he flaps his hand in the air. “Skittish.”

Hearing this description of himself is startling. He’s never considered that other people might see his anxiety leaking out so obviously. Is Phil just a perceptive person, or is it plain as day that Dan is near constantly on edge, always worrying, never truly feeling he can let things go?

He forces himself to mimic Phil’s stance, shoulders slumped, legs slightly apart, head lolling back against the wall behind him. “Okay,” Dan says after a while, in what he hopes is a nonchalant voice. “Tell me about your husband.”

He can feel Phil’s narrow-eyed stare, but Dan focuses resolutely on his glass of champagne, heart pounding because he’s never said something so bold in his life.

“Are you a reporter?” Phil asks.

“What? No, of course not. Who the hell would I be reporting to up here?”

This seems to placate Phil, though he still looks unhappy with the turn in conversation. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “What do you want to know?”

Dan swallows nervously, scratching at his bare thigh where the droplets of pool water are trickling and evaporating. “How did it happen? Like… you met him at uni right?”

“In the library,” Phil confirms. There’s a silence then, but Dan forces himself not to jump in and fill it, so that Phil will continue. It works. He sighs, shifting to slip a little further down the wall. “I’d heard gossip that some heir to Royalty was strutting about campus pretending to learn something. I didn’t give it much thought, honestly.”

Dan’s interest is now fully piqued. He tries not to look too keen for the next part of the story. “You didn’t like him?”

One of Phil’s shoulders shrugs. “More like I just didn’t care. I knew vaguely who he was from the news and stuff, but it just didn’t seem anything to do with me. I liked my course, I liked my friends, I was doing well. I just didn’t have time to obsess over some rich kid the way everyone else was.”

This is all sounding disturbingly familiar. “So what changed?”

“I was in the library one day, working,” Phil replies in a quieter voice. His eyes slowly defocus, staring at the empty, gelatinous air hanging in the middle of the room. “He just came and sat next to me. He had an entourage of giggling first years lingering around him, sat at the next table over. Actually, it was annoying. I was trying to work. But he didn’t disrupt me. He just sat there reading something, and I kept, like,  _feeling_  him look at me.”

“An entourage?” Dan asks, finding this hard to believe. “Surely he’s not that attractive.” 

Phil fixes him with a curious stare. “You don’t know what he looks like?”

Dan tries to scrounge up Sir Nikolai’s face in his mind. All that comes up is a blank, white face with generic features. He couldn’t even say for sure what colour hair the guy has. He shakes his head. “No. I don’t really read, like, celeb news.”

For a fleeting second, something akin to respect passes across Phil’s features, but it’s gone so quickly Dan can’t be sure if it was a heat-born mirage. “Well, yeah. He’s hot. Objectively speaking. Ask pretty much anyone.”

“Right,” Dan says. For some reason, this makes him feel strangely irritated, like he wishes Phil would tack on to this statement that Nikolai is also vain or pretentious. “So, what, you got into a heated discussion about  _Sartre_  in the library café and fell into his arms?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks. “Not exactly.” He sips some champagne. “He asked me for a pen or something, I don’t remember. It was just an excuse to talk to me, I think. He told me afterwards that he wasn’t even reading the book he had with him. In retrospect, I reckon he probably came into the library to find someone sitting alone, that he could-” Phil cuts himself off abruptly. He takes a larger gulp of champagne. “Anyway. I was young, and he was gorgeous, and pretty intimidating. He asked me to go on a date with him, and I didn’t wanna be the guy who said no to a date with the world’s hottest, most eligible bachelor.”

Dan nods, chewing this over. He’s desperate to probe further into whatever Phil had thought better about saying, but he’s already teetering on the edge of his seat, sure that Phil is about to realise he’s spewing too much. This is the kind of behind-the-scenes gold that maybe only a handful of people have heard. If he were the sort of person that sold gossip to tabloids, he’d probably make a load of cash for this. 

“So…” Dan says as casually as he can. “Did he intimidate you into marrying him, as well?”

Phil snorts with laughter. “Ouch.”

A sharp thrill runs through Dan, chased immediately by a pang of guilt. “Sorry. I just don’t get it. Sure, he’s rich, and apparently attractive, but marrying someone is… y’know. Mad. You met him in  _uni._  And committed to be with him for the rest of your life.”

A faint, amused smile graces Phil’s lips. “Guess where he took me on our first date?”

Dan shrugs, not giving much thought to the unexpected question. “Dinner at some extravagant restaurant?”

“Paris.”

Dan’s eyes bulge. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he do for the second date?”

Phil laughs. “He rented out a cinema and screened  _Kill Bill_ , which was my favourite film at the time. And he hired a Michelin star chef to provide us with cocktails and gourmet popcorn.”  

Dan shakes his head, marvelling. “That’s insane. I’ve never even  _smelled_  the amount of money he must have spent on that.”

Phil nods, musing. “Kind of a waste, too. We didn’t watch much of the film, as far as I remember.”

The temperature seems to rise a good few degrees; Dan is sure he’s beginning to resemble a boiled sweet. “I guess it must be pretty nice to have someone do all that for you.”

“That’s just it, though,” Phil replies, smile slipping. “He didn’t do anything. That much money is all smoke and mirrors. I was so young. I grew up in a working class family, took out a loan to go to uni like everyone else. I’d never touched wealth like that. It was overwhelming.”

Dan considers this, letting Phil’s words fold slowly into his champagne-gauzed mind. He hadn’t been aware of Phil’s background until now; he’d just assumed he’d grown up rich. It’s bizarre to think that once, the two of them were probably quite similar. They might even have been friends before Nikolai swooped Phil off to a life of luxury.

“I thought I was in love,” Phil says, maybe to himself. He lifts the bottle of champagne, and refills his glass, then leans over to pour some into Dan’s. “But it was infatuation. It’s hard to discern if something’s real when it’s dripping in diamonds.”

“So...” Dan chews his lip, wondering whether this is a step too far. In the end, the champagne decides to push the question out regardless. “You don’t love him?”

If Phil is annoyed by the intrusive question, he doesn’t show it. He just shakes his head. “He doesn’t love me either. So I don’t feel too bad.”

“I don’t understand,” Dan says quietly. “He must have wanted you. He asked you to marry him.”

“He just wanted a story,” Phil says, dejectedly. “He’s obsessed with fame. With being this renegade-Royal, upsetting his father and behaving obscenely. He announced that he was bi, but nobody cared. So he one-upped himself. Found the nearest nobody and seduced him with cash and grand gestures. You should’ve seen the ring he gave me when he asked.”

Dan’s eyes fall to the ring on Phil’s finger now. It’s silver, and shiny, but simple, demure. Phil follows Dan’s gaze. “This isn’t it. The engagement ring is in a safe somewhere now. He let me choose something a bit less extravagant for the wedding, thank God.”

The words ‘let me’ leap out at Dan, making him frown. 

“I can’t imagine being married right now,” Dan confesses. “You were my age, right?”

So,  _perhaps_  Dan’s done a little digging in his down time. 

Phil squints at him. “I was twenty-one when we got married.”

“Younger than me, then. Is it weird?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m drowning in marital bliss, let’s put it that way. His press agent sees him more than I do.”

From the way Phil describes him, along with the vague bits and pieces Dan’s gleaned from news articles over the years, he strongly suspects that Sir Nikolai is an even worse version of Phil himself. Arrogant, snobby, unfeeling. Why anyone would want to be associated with such a man, let alone be married to him, is entirely baffling. Then again, Dan supposes that Phil was absurdly young to have been expected to work this out. He’d confused Sir Nikolai’s grand, extravagant gestures for actual affection, as any ordinary twenty-one-year-old undoubtedly would. In the eyes of someone so naive to the perils of dating, Sir Nikolai probably seemed like some fairytale prince, rescuing Phil from a life of mundanity. Despite Dan’s twenty-first year being spent firmly in the closet, with a girlfriend, he’s not sure he would have been able to resist Sir Nikolai himself, back then.

“Why do you have to stay up here?” Dan asks, still thinking. “Why can’t you go and be with him?”

“A good question,” Phil says with a snort. “I ask him that every time we speak. It’s always something vague. The paparazzi are out for my blood. News of the two of us sighted together would overshadow whatever project he’s currently working on. I’d be bored to pieces trailing around after him. It’s all bollocks. It’s just easier for him if I’m kept far away, only brought out when I need to be.”

“But… why here?” Dan asks, gesturing to the door of the sauna, outside of which the mountain lies, stunning and ferocious. “Surely he has mansions or castles he could stow you in?”

Phil shrugs. “Sure. Loads. It wouldn’t make much of a difference, though. A cage is still a cage, no matter how shiny the bars. Initially he sold this place to me as a suite in a remote, exotic mountain retreat, available to me for as long as I liked. He told me the staff would wait on me hand and foot, that I could ski, totally undisturbed, and that I could stay there indefinitely.”

Dan’s eyebrows raise. “When you put it like that, it sounds amazing.”

“Exactly. He didn’t mention that leaving was basically not allowed.”

“Not allowed,” Dan repeats, not bothering to hide his disgust. “It’s appalling. That’s how he treats his  _husband_. Like you’re a pet or something.”

“It’s a rich-kid mentality,” Phil says, nodding. “Always greedy for the next shiny toy. He’d stop at nothing to get me, but once he got me, he was bored. Locked me away in the toy box.”

“So just divorce him,” Dan blurts.

In the next mortified second, Dan tries in vain to summon the Gods to turn back time. This champagne is unscrewing his inhibitions in a dangerous way. Phil, thankfully, just seems amused by his sudden boldness. 

“It’s not as easy as that,” he replies with gentle condescension. “He’s got an army of lawyers that would fight tooth and nail to keep a messy divorce from happening. His reputation would suffer if anyone caught wind that I wasn’t totally besotted with the darling of the Swiss monarchy.”

“You think they’d buy you off or something, to keep you quiet?”

“More likely they’d just threaten to leave me with nothing,” Phil says with a resigned sigh, suggesting he’s thought about this a lot. “Can you imagine if I tried to go up in a legal battle against someone that powerful? I come from nothing. I never even finished my degree. All my money comes from him. I don’t have a place to live, no job, nothing. He owns me.”

“Fuck  _that_.”

Phil laughs, louder and fuller than Dan has heard since earlier at the bottom of the slope, what seems like a lifetime ago. The sauna is tilting gently from side to side, like it’s bobbing on a calm sea. It’s quite pleasant, like being rocked in a large, very warm cradle. To further this concept, Dan decides to lie down on the bench, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

“Nobody owns you, Phil,” he’s suddenly saying. “You can go back and finish your degree if you want. You’re young. Too young to be stuck up here all alone.” 

“Interesting that you don’t seem to be taking your own advice,” Phil points out. 

Dan tilts his head back, seeing Phil upside-down. “That’s… different.”

“How so?” Phil sips more champagne, his amusement stretching across his upside-down mouth.

“‘cause like…” Dan’s mind swims; he can’t remember his own arguments. Did he ever even have any? “Okay, okay, fine. You’re right. We’re both hiding up here ‘cause we can’t face how scary reality is.”

“Mmm,” Phil agrees. “Who’d have thought we’d find common ground?”

Dan snorts, then sits up and drains the last of his glass. “Wouldn’t go that far.”

“No? I’m still a dick-brain, then?”

“Yep.” Dan hiccups. “Sorry, mate. Your husband’s shit, but there’s no excuse for rudeness.”

Phil chuckles. “Even though I said sorry?”

“You’re still rude to me!”

Dan sets his glass down, then nearly knocks it off the bench as he attempts to get comfortable. Luckily, Phil swoops in and grabs it just in time. He’s smiling, tickled by Dan’s clumsiness. “I used to be nice, you know.”

“Right, sure. Before fame changed you.”

“Before I grew into a bitter old housewife thirty years too soon.”

Dan’s smile wanes. There’s a soft tugging in the vicinity of his heart. “Yeah,” he says. He can’t seem to look away. “Your eyes are crazy blue,” he finds himself saying. 

Phil’s awkward, answering cough should embarrass him, but it doesn’t. “I think we should probably call it a night, don’t you?”

Dan frowns. “What? It’s not that late.”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

No, it can’t possibly be. Phil peels his Apple Watch from his wrist and holds it out for Dan to see. “Christ,” Dan says, starting to gather up his towel - which has somehow slipped off somewhere in the midst of the alcohol induced chat. “I should- I’ve got to-”

He’s getting to his feet, mind already projecting ahead to the million tasks he needs to complete before he can call it a night. For fuck’s sake, he’s somehow spent the whole day slacking off on the slopes and in the hot tub. He’s so lost in his own stupidity that he forgets to ease the weight on his ankle, and cries out as the pain lances through him. He topples to one side, and is immediately caught by two very warm, damp arms.

“Careful,” Phil says, like he always does.

Dan turns to look at him. His expression leaks his own shock that he jumped up to catch Dan at all. Slowly, Dan extricates himself, heart suddenly a kick drum reverberating through the cavity of his chest.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dan says. 

In silence, the two of them gather the bottle and glasses, then shuffle to the door. Phil ducks around Dan, who is slow from his limp, and reaches for the door. He shoves it. It doesn’t move. He shoves it again. Nothing.

Phil turns to Dan, frowning. “Won’t open.”

“You’re not serious,” Dan replies, heart sinking.

“Try it,” Phil says with a shrug.

Dan reaches out, shoving at the door. It doesn’t budge. “Shit,” Dan mutters. “Are we locked in?”

They’ll dehydrate in less than twenty-four hours. Even quicker from the bottle of champagne they’ve downed between them. He turns to Phil, eyes wide.

“Did you not bring the key?” Phil asks, incredulous.

“Key?” Dan repeats. “I’ve never known about- this is your bloody fault! I’ve never even been in this sauna, you should have known we needed a key-”

Dan cuts off. Phil is fighting a smile, lips pressed together. For whatever reason, Dan is pretty sure that he’s about to commit a murder in the next few seconds. He takes a deep breath, and watches with rising levels of pure homicidal rage as Phil pulls on the door handle, and it glides open.

“Couldn’t resist,” Phil says, laughing. “You’re too easy.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hate you, you hate me. Let’s try and get you across the snow without you breaking your neck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eight coming next Friday!


	8. Chapter 8

Dan can feel eyes boring into him as he gradually crosses the wide lobby floor to lock the front doors, then hobbles back to the desk. It takes considerable time and effort, despite the aid of Phil’s ski pole. 

“Ugh, sit down Gandalf,” Phil groans, then jumps down from where he’s perched on the desk. “I’ll do it.”

He snatches the ski pole from Dan’s hand, then ushers him impatiently into the  chair behind the desk; Dan thinks about indignantly asserting that he’s perfectly capable, but the champagne is still pleasantly fizzing around his edges, and he can’t summon enough energy to argue. Plus, it is quite painful trying to do all the many closing tasks on what he strongly suspects is a sprained ankle. He slumps in the chair, deciding to revel in the unusual sight of Phil Novokoric doing actual physical labour. He watches, trying not to seem too smug, as Phil heads into the back office to switch the lights off and lock the door, then gather the skis and poles they left haphazardly on the lobby floor, and stack them neatly against the wall.

Finally, Phil returns to the desk, inclines his head towards the stairs, and holds out a hand. Stunned, Dan hesitates, but slips his own into it. Phil’s skin is pleasantly warm, with a softness that Dan assumes comes from never having to lift a finger. Nevertheless, he allows Phil to pull him to his feet - an action that seems as effortless as breathing to him. Like it’s become natural, Phil then slings Dan’s arm around his shoulders, and together they amble awkwardly to the stairs.

“I can do this myself-”

“Just shut up and let me help you.”

With considerable effort, Dan swallows his pride, and allows Phil to shuffle him, one agonising step at a time, up to the mezzanine floor. Once they emerge on the landing, Phil manoeuvres him into a chair and marches straight into the kitchen. Through the serving hatch, Dan can see him darting to and fro, spraying counters and waving a cloth about. Five minutes go by, during which time Dan chews his lip and tries to sort through the champagne-bubbled fizz of thoughts in his mind. Then, the kitchen lights flicker off and Phil pushes stylishly through the swing door. He doesn’t look at Dan, just swans over to the balcony doors, locks them, then plucks a stray book from a table and places it back on its shelf. There’s no more mess after that, as its just been the two of them here, so finally, he turns to Dan, walks over, and holds out his hand again. 

“Ready?”

“Are you doing all my jobs for me ‘cause you feel guilty about crippling me?” Dan asks, voice subdued because somehow when Phil acts out the tasks Dan usually finds agonisingly dull, he makes it seem like he’s performing a ballet.

“You crippled yourself,” Phil replies, grabbing Dan’s tentative hand and hauling him upright. Again, he lifts Dan’s arm around his shoulders, and together they make their way to the stairs. “I’m doing your job for you so that I don’t have to spend ten hours waiting for you.”

The alcohol fuzz might be taking its time about receding, but this explanation still seems odd. “Why’d you need to wait for me? You could just go to bed.”

For a long time, Phil doesn’t answer and Dan wonders if he’s said something out of turn. He’s about to ask something to this effect, when Phil stops mid-flight of stairs, blows a puff of exhausted air out of his cheeks and says, “God, you're heavier than you look.”

By the time they’ve reached the top floor, they’re both in a bit of a state. Phil’s robe has come entirely undone, revealing the dark red, clinging material of his still partly damp trunks. Dan has to actively avoid looking in that region, lest he become even more of a sweaty mess. Thankfully, Dan did remember his key, in the pocket of his robe, which he fishes out now.

“Well,” Dan says, feeling sticky and unpleasantly warm from being pressed so tightly against Phil for such an extended period of time. “Thanks for- you know. Hobbling me.”

Phil falls against the doorframe of room eight. “Anytime.”

A strange, thick silence stretches between them. Dan plays with his room key; he can’t help but notice that Phil has made no move to retrieve his. “So… goodnight.”

“Yeah,” Phil says. In the blown pupils of his glittering eyes, Dan can see for miles, across the jagged peaks of the alps, tinged blue from the night sky. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move. Shakily, Dan makes an attempt to lift his key into the lock, but he doesn’t get far. Phil steps forwards, slow and cautious, closing a small gap between them. A waft of chlorine permeates the small space of the hallway. Phil reaches out, his fingers ghosting the edge of Dan’s jaw, and then there is no distance between them at all. Phil is unnaturally warm and damp, his skin staticky as it brushes against him. The air seems to be having trouble working its way through the ventricles of Dan’s lungs. His oxygen-starved thoughts jumble together, like they’re all happening at once. All that’s clear is a shocking, sea-glass blue, tinting the air itself, like he’s been plunged underwater.

Phil leans towards him, and softly, fleetingly, pushes his lips against Dan’s. It’s so quick he could have dreamed it, but the sensation elicited - bright pulses of pure, raw energy radiating in the tips of his fingers - are enough to assure him, even as Phil pulls away, that it was very real.

A look of alarm settles itself over Phil’s features. “Shit,” he whispers, then pulls out his key from his pocket, opens the door to his room, and darts inside.

*

For the first night since he set foot in The Secret of the Alps, Dan feels no desire to cry once the door of his room closes behind him. In a daze only partly induced by the champagne, Dan wanders into the ensuite bathroom, eyes glossing over his flushed reflection in the mirror. Without thinking, he immediately begins filling the bath, as if he is being controlled by some higher, unseen force. It’s nonsensical to climb into yet another tub of warm water, especially as he should be sleeping right now, but he feels an overwhelming urge to be buoyant, naked, weightless. When the bath is only halfway full, Dan slips out of the robe, pushes his trunks down his legs, and steps in. He lies back, head lolling against the ceramic edge, and closes his eyes.

Against the steady trickle of the water running from the faucet, slowly immersing him in a pool of warmth, Dan sees, in the darkness of his closed lids, Phil’s face hovering above him. He is leaning in, a thousand secrets nestled in the seam slashed between his full lips. As the warmth engulfs Dan inch by inch, he relives every twitch of his nerves, every palpitation of his frantic heart. Against his mouth, he feels a kiss as soft and fleeting as the page of a book skimming his fingertip. Phil’s mouth had been hot, and moist, conjuring a bolt of lightning so fierce in Dan’s chest that his veins still hum with electricity.

He doesn’t realise he’s touching himself until his eyes flicker open, and he sees, in the clear water, his own hand moving steadily over his cock. A shudder of  _wrong_ ness courses through him, stirring that blinding electric pulse into a frenzy. His toes curl against the lip of the bath as his teeth sink into his lower lip. He imagines two glacial blue eyes fixed on him, and he moans, louder than he intends. He jerks faster, his other hand gripping the edge of the bath.

“Phil,” he groans through gritted teeth, and comes, violently, a loud splash resounding through the bathroom as he writhes through the orgasm. “Phil,” he breathes again as the tremors undulate through his body, and he stills.

Just then, the water begins to spill over the edge of the bath, pouring in cascades to the tiled floor.

*

Dan wakes up in a marginally less unpleasant way than normal, as the light that usually streams across his face is dull and shadowy this morning. His mouth is dry and gummy, and he has a general feeling of grogginess that he associates with his days as a University fresher. Limping into the bathroom to wash the feeling away, he steps straight through a puddle, and balks for a moment before remembering the… incident last night.

He peers down at the water between his toes, the ghost of a kiss fluttering against his lips. It takes a full four and a half minutes for his brain to click back into action, and when it does, his heart doesn’t stop racing for ten more. He stares into his own eyes as he brushes his teeth, his mind a carousel of ‘ _how, why, how, why_ ’. Perhaps all of yesterday had been some mad dream induced by the scant oxygen up here, and today is actually Saturday again.

Dan spits out a glob of toothpaste. Behind the peppermint freshness, he can still taste the hint of tart sweetness gleaned from Phil’s lips. There’s just no way he could have dreamed such intensity, no matter how delirious the cold and the adrenaline of his impromptu ski session had made him.

As he dresses himself, Dan glances out of the window and notices a familiar blob of crimson splintering the white horizon. He checks his phone. It’s still early, yet Phil is already out on the slopes. The sight of him trekking out without so much as asking Dan along feels mildly insulting for about twenty seconds, and then he remembers how dreadful the whole experience had been yesterday, and the annoyance dissipates. Besides, his ankle is still nowhere near up to another round. 

He heads downstairs, glad of the stretch of time ahead that will be mercifully devoid of unbearably awkward, post-drunken-kiss conversations over cornflakes. Nevertheless, the emptiness pressing in from every wall of this place is decidedly unnerving. In an effort to dispel the quiet, Dan switches on the TV in the mezzanine lounge, letting it play in the background whilst he turns on lights and cookers and unlocks doors. The monotonous buzz of the newscaster’s voice does help him to relax a bit, and he heads into the kitchen to make coffee and something to eat. As he spoons Crunchy Nut into his mouth, leant against the kitchen counter, Dan watches the news through the serving hatch, only half listening.

The channel he’s found is in English thankfully, though the anchorman’s accent is as thick as Kaspar’s, so Dan can only make out about two thirds of what he’s saying. The grogginess that still sits heavily around his shoulders doesn’t help things; it’s like he’s donned an ephemeral cloak, stitched together with remnants of perplexity over the entirety of yesterday, and anxiety about what today has in store. It’s only as the words ‘oncoming’ and ‘blizzard’ leave the newscaster’s lips for the second time that Dan’s mind focuses itself, and he lowers the spoon to listen properly.

“...reports of the worst blizzard Switzerland has seen in some years. Although the majority of the storm will be shielded by the mountains, it is not advised to make any long, unnecessary journeys until it has passed. Please stay indoors if you can, and do not take any risks…”

Dan tunes out, heart thumping in sudden alarm. His overwrought brain fires a rapid blitz of images at him: a wall of snowfall engulfing Phil as he trudges back to the hotel, Phil being swept along by a ferocious wind and plummeting off the mountain, Phil skiing directly into a boulder, injuring himself and freezing slowly in a swirling ice storm.

Dan chucks his bowl into the sink and runs to the front desk, ankle throbbing in protest as he moves on it so carelessly. He boots up the ancient computer and waits, chanting “come on, come on, come on” as it stirs slowly into life. Once its finally gotten past its Windows 98 loading screen, Dan opens the hotel database and types in Phil Novokoric, scrolling through a blur of details until he finds a mobile number. Praying it’s the right one, Dan lifts the receiver of the landline, and punches it in.

It rings for at least three minutes, and Dan is convinced that Phil must have left the phone in his room, or is unable to hear it above the wind rushing past his ears. And then, mercifully, there’s a click, followed by a rustling noise. 

Dan waits, breath held, and eventually hears a faint “Dan?”

In the instant he hears his own name, Dan loses momentum. “Y-yes,” he says, jarred. “How did you know it was- never mind, listen. You’ve got to come back.”

A pause. Dan pictures Phil’s frown lines, etched into his pale forehead. “What’s happened?”

“Look up, you idiot,” Dan says, Phil’s slow, distant voice setting his teeth on edge. “There’s a huge blizzard coming.”

“Oh,” Phil says, sounding entirely unbothered. “It’s fine. I reckon I’ve still got a few hours before-”

“Don’t be a complete moron,” Dan interrupts, louder. “I’m not explaining to Mona that I let you freeze to death while she was away for  _two days_. If I have to hobble out to haul you back by your dumb quiff I will. Get back here.”

Dan hangs up before Phil can verbalise whatever smarmy retort was surely on the tip of his tongue. His heart thumps loudly, and he lifts his thumb to his mouth, chewing on the nail. He decides to go up to the mezzanine and watch for Phil on the balcony. This idea, which seemed great in his mind, is dispelled over the next half hour as a thick, almost opaque gauze of white descends gradually over the landscape. He stays out on the balcony, peering over the railing, for as long as he can before snowy wind whipping him drives him back inside. He spends the next ten minutes googling what criteria must be met for a snowstorm to be categorised as a blizzard, and then freaking out.

Just as he’s debating who to call - Mona, Kaspar, mountain rescue, his mother - the sound of the front door slamming open almost makes Dan scream in relief. He jogs down to the lobby as fast as possible on his injured foot; upon seeing Phil, his red jacket almost obscured by the layer of thick snow that covers it, Dan picks up the nearest object - the hotel brochure on the desk - and hurls it at him.

“You  _prick_!”

Phil removes his sunglasses, which are completely frosted over with snow. “Uh, ow.”

The brochure had only skimmed his arm, then fallen disappointingly to the floor. Dan doesn’t even entertain the thought of apologising. “What the fuck are you playing at? You could have  _died_.”

Phil snorts, looking away. “You were  _definitely_ a drama kid.”

Incensed by the typical evasion, Dan steps into Phil’s space in an attempt to appear menacing. He may have more of an intimidating aura than he imagines, as Phil reacts by taking a hasty, somewhat alarmed, step backwards. Dan tries not to let this deter him.

“Would it kill you to just- just- say you’re sorry?” His fists clench by his sides.

Phil’s chin juts out. “For what?”

The next words die on Dan’s tongue. He gets a distinct feeling that Phil is forcing himself not to let his eyes fall to Dan’s mouth. His shoulders sag, and he steps out of Phil’s bubble, wary of some charge between them that he can’t articulate. He realises for the first time that Phil is shivering.

“You’re practically frozen,” Dan says, accusatorially. “Come upstairs for God’s sake. I’ll make coffee.”

*

Sat at one of the small tables, opposite an uncomfortable-looking, still slightly frosty Phil, Dan tries to convey an air of general disapproval and irritation in the way he sips his coffee. He’s warmed up some tomato soup he’d found in a tin in the cupboard, and has put a bowl of it in front of Phil, along with a bread roll he’d hastily defrosted in the microwave. It’s probably still frozen in the middle - much like Phil.

To Dan’s surprise, Phil picks up the spoon and swirls it in the soup. Dan waits, expectantly, but he makes no move to actually lift any to his mouth.

A frustrated sigh leaves Dan’s mouth before he can stop it. “I think we need to talk about yesterday.”

The spoon clatters into the bowl, sending a few tiny specks of blood orange soup over the table. “What about yesterday?”

Dan avoids his eye, leaning back in the chair. “Look, obviously there are some feelings of guilt here-”

“Good,” Phil interrupts, hotly. “So just apologise and we’ll get it over with.”

Dan blanches, sure he’s misheard. “You want  _me_  to apologise?!”

Phil says nothing, but moves his attention to the macchiato Dan made him, shifting the mug from hand to hand as it’s still too hot to drink.

“What am I meant to be apologising for, exactly?” Dan asks, having trouble keeping a lid on his sudden fury. “Having brittle ankles that snap in your stupid, weird skis? Getting too easily offended by your constant barrage of criticism? Or maybe somehow tripping you up in the hallway so that you stumbled and accidentally smashed your lips into mine?”

At this last question, Phil slams his mug down, sloshing coffee everywhere, and leans across the table, eyes hard. “I’m  _married_. Married! Do you understand that?”

A touch concerned that perhaps his sarcastic speech had crossed a line, given the severity of Phil’s reaction, Dan leans backwards, taking a pause before answering. “Um… yes. It’s pretty much all anyone goes on about round here, or in the news apparently-”

“Then kindly tell me what the fuck you’re playing at,” Phil interrupts, far louder than necessary. He takes a deep breath, then exhales through his nose, obviously trying to keep calm as well. “Look,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry if there’s been some misunderstanding here, but I am in a committed relationship of three years. I’ve vowed to spend my life with Nikolai-”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dan cries, ears ringing. “I’m not the one misunderstanding things here. You kissed  _me_!”

“Oh, and you recoiled like a burned heifer,” he sneers, dripping with sarcasm.

Dan splutters, flushing. He sets his coffee down, wrought iron gates slamming down protectively over his memories of last night’s proceedings. “I- I was surprised!”

“Yeah,  _so_  surprising that after flirting at me all day-”

“What?! I was not  _flirting_ -”

“You made me carry you back to the hotel!”

“Because your stupid skis nearly broke my ankle!”

“What about unloading your tragic little backstory on me in the hot tub?”

Dan is seconds away from throwing more objects, and this time the nearest ones are equipped with potential scalding damage. “We were just  _talking,_  you absolute cock. Excuse me for thinking you were actually interested.”

Phil rolls his eyes, as if the very idea of this is preposterous. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Oh my God! You are such a snobbish asshole!”

“Oh, forget it!” Phil shouts, standing up so abruptly that the table rattles, and more coffee and soup spills everywhere, starting to drip off the edges to the carpet. “Let’s just wait out this fucking storm in separate rooms from now on. If I have to spend another minute with you I’m gonna march back out into the blizzard and let it take me.”

“Fine by me!” Dan replies shrilly, though Phil is already stalking off to the stairs, abandoning his coffee and soup, both untouched.

It shouldn’t bother Dan, shaking with rage as he is, that he knows Phil hasn’t eaten a damn thing since yesterday morning. If he wants to starve himself for no good reason it’s his own damn problem. It’s not as if Dan isn’t constantly making him plenty of food he could eat. He gathers the bowl and mugs and takes them into the kitchen (he’d like to say he stormed in there, but his weakened ankle means he could only do an unsatisfying limp-walk), then tries to force himself to pour the remains of soup and coffee away. For three whole minutes he stares at the crockery, willing himself to just get rid of the stuff. It feels wrong, somehow, to dispose of perfectly good food and drink when there’s a man upstairs who must be hungry, despite his unwillingness to eat. In the end, Dan just leaves the stuff on the side, too worked up to deal with the confusing conflict of emotions around wanting Phil to suffer, and not wanting him to literally die.

He limps out of the kitchen with a cloth and disinfectant spray, and begins cleaning the mess Phil had made during his bitch fit. Once it’s done, he heads down to the lobby, deciding the only thing to do is, as Phil said, isolate himself in the furthest area of the hotel from Phil’s room, and distract himself with a task that requires concentration, but little brain power. Searching vaguely through the items on display in Mona’s office, Dan finds a painting with a broken frame that’s come off the wall. He sits down at her desk and mends the hook on the back with some glue. Once that’s done, he finds a broken air conditioning unit, which he takes apart piece by piece until he finds the fault, and can put it back together, fixed. He reattaches the snapped-off antlers of a reindeer figurine, puts batteries in Mona’s radio, and winds her grandfather clock. He’s just sitting down to glue the binding back on a few of the books she has lying around, when the grandfather clock chimes - it’s six o’clock in the evening.

Dan is sure, for a moment, that he must have knocked the hands as he was winding it, but he checks his phone, and finds that somehow time has slipped through his fingers. His joints click as he walks slowly out of Mona’s office; out of the lobby windows, the world is a dark, blue-bathed sea of white. He stops in the middle of the floor, entranced by the frenzied flurry of snow whirling past the panes. He limps to the door and slides the heavy bolt, feeling a little nervous about the implications of such heavy snowfall. Is it possible to be snowed in here? Will the phones and internet still work? What if the lights go out? Dan has not been told about any fuse boxes or pilot lights.

As if his paranoid thoughts are loud bellows echoing for miles , the phone suddenly trills, and Dan hops across the lobby to get it. Just the sound of it splitting the silence is reassuring, as it means that he’s not completely cut off from reality. At the last second, just as he’s lifting the receiver to his ear, Dan remembers that it could be Phil, calling from his room. The mere thought is enough to have his blood boiling again, and he almost slams the phone back down, but before he can, a woman speaks.

“Dan?” 

“Louise,” Dan gushes immediately, eyes fluttering closed at the sound of her robust, vibrant voice. “God, it’s so good to hear from you. Are you on your way back?”

“Have you looked out the window, Dan?” she asks, though she sounds gentle, like she might really believe he hasn’t. “I’m stuck in Geneva until the storm passes. My plane from England only just managed to land, they’ve closed all the airports now. No trains or buses are leaving the city tonight, and there’s no way in hell I’m climbing in a cable car to get up the mountain, despite the fact Kaspar would probably think nothing of it.”

Dan listens to all of this with a growing feeling of dread. “God, poor you. How annoying. What about Mona, is she stuck in Geneva too?”

There’s a pause. “I thought she’d have called you.”

Dan swallows, that growing dread doubling in size. “What about?”

“Things aren’t progressing as quickly as everyone thought with her grandmother,” Louise explains, her tone uncharacteristically sombre. “The poor woman’s on the brink of passing, but just keeps hanging on. Mona said the doctors said it could be a few hours, or a few days. She feels she has to stay to the end for her family’s sake.”

“Christ,” Dan mutters, heart squeezing in sympathy for poor Mona, stuck in some hospital room with a dying relative, no doubt feeling she has to be the hard, strong shoulder for her sobbing family to cry on. “That’s terrible. So she’s not gonna be back anytime soon.”

“Like I said, there’s no way to know how long it will take, but I’d imagine at least a day or two.”

Dan sighs as silently as he can, mind once again x-raying through three floors up to Phil’s room. Another day or two, at least, alone up here with him and his confusing, volatile mood swings. Based on how the past two days have been, who could say what mad, unexpected thing Phil might do or say next. For all Dan can predict about the man, he could come downstairs tomorrow morning to see Phil hula-hooping on the balcony butt-naked. It’s only when Louise speaks again, splitting the silence, that Dan realises he’s not responding to her, too fixated on the image he’s conjured of Phil’s bare, gyrating buttocks against a backdrop of beautiful snow-peaked mountains.

“How’s it been with Phil?” Louise asks, as if she can read the absence of his words. “Have you at least buried his body somewhere discreet?”

Dan snorts. “Thought I’d just leave him outside, let the yetis have him.”

“Seriously though,” Louise prompts. “Have you been managing?”

Dan thinks for a minute about telling her the truth, that he’s one snide comment away from punching him in the jaw, but decides she’s got enough to worry about. “I’m coping. Just.”

“That’s a relief,” she says in a sigh. “Tell him I’m proud of him for behaving himself.”

This confuses Dan, but he agrees with a sort of grunting noise. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“As long as the trains are running again, yes.”

“I’m going to fall hysterically into your arms and beg you for a decent meal,” Dan tells her.

She snorts, and he can almost see her exasperated but pleased eye-roll. “It’s been two days, Dan. Get a grip. Weren’t you a uni student before this? I thought your kind lived on toast and microwave meals.”

The mention of food makes Dan’s stomach rumble, and he thinks uncomfortably of the now cold soup and coffee he’d left in the kitchen earlier. Guilt cascades over him, consuming and sickening. He needs to force some food down Phil’s throat somehow, if only to alleviate the nausea filling him head to toe.

“Which is why I so quickly became addicted to your culinary prowess,” Dan says, knowing this will make her smile. “Anyway, speaking of, I’d better go feed the beast.”

She laughs, sounding far more carefree than she had when he first picked up the phone, which makes him glad. “Good luck with that. Wear gloves if you want to keep all your fingers.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“See you soon, then.”

“Bye, Lou.”

“Bye!”

Dan hangs up with a certain reluctance, then lifts his gaze to the violent storm still raging outside the windows. He takes a deep breath, and makes his way to the stairs, not hurrying. He gets to the kitchen and walks over to investigate the soup; it’s got a skin on top now, but it’s basically fine. He finds a spoon, removes the thin layer from the surface, pours it into a saucepan and sets it on the hob to reheat. While it bubbles, he washes the coffee mug from before, then rummages in the freezer and fishes out one of the large pizzas Louise had made from scratch with special non-dairy cheese.

He cooks it in silence, playing on his phone and refusing to let himself think too hard about what he’s doing, or the fact that the person he’s doing it for is undeserving and will likely be unappreciative. He feels a lot calmer than he had a few hours ago at the table - his little handyman spree had helped his roiling anger to settle back into the low buzz of irritation he always feels when he thinks about Phil. The devil on Dan’s shoulder helpfully conjures an image of being in the bath last night, very much  _not_  irritated with Phil whatsoever. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He burns himself retrieving the cooked pizza, cheeks aflame.

Dan slices the pizza, puts half the slices on a plate, and pours some of the tomato soup into a bowl. He then finds a packet of Pringles, a big bar of dark chocolate, an apple, and a can of Diet Coke. He puts all of these things on a tray with some cutlery and a napkin, then begins an agonising and slow journey up to Phil’s room, carrying the heavy thing.

By the time he reaches the top floor, his arms are aching, he’s breathless, and his ankle throbs angrily. He pounds on the door of room eight with his injured foot, not caring anymore that he’ll likely be sorry later when it’s even more swollen. It takes a few minutes for Phil to answer, which is probably a deliberate snub that just makes Dan even more pissed off. The moment Phil is visible, Dan shoves the tray at him, practically snarling.

“You have to eat,” Dan snaps before he has a chance to say anything. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about you choosing a life of martyrdom or whatever, but if my boss returns to find I’ve let you wither away over the two days I’m responsible for keeping you alive, I’ll be fired and have to return to a shitty life, a shitty course, and a shitty family. So eat this, for God’s sake. It’s not cute, or attractive, or impressive to starve yourself.”

Phil’s mouth has fallen open a short way, but he doesn’t make any move to try and give the tray back. His wide blue eyes are locked on Dan, but Dan is already staggering back down the hall as best he can. He’s sure he looks an absolute prat, barely able to make it without a stabilising hand on the wall, but he doesn’t care.

He waits, not stopping, for the inevitable retort echoing after him, but it never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Nine coming next Friday 8pm GMT!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stormy night

 

The television is on, but Dan muted it some time ago. He’d tried to watch a weird Swiss documentary on sustainable farming, but the language barrier had been too difficult, even with subtitles, mostly because Dan kept getting distracted by the swirling patterns of the enormous snowflakes outside the large balcony windows. He’s curled in a beanbag chair, clutching a mug of hot chocolate that tastes slightly too weak. His eyes are fixed on the outside, his view of which has been largely obliterated by the storm. It’s unforgiving, and harsh, and totally surreal, being up here in the thick of it.

Driven mostly by the idea that he’ll probably never experience anything so wild and dangerous up close again, Dan finds himself moving to the balcony doors. He opens one cautiously, and immediately the agonised howl of wind screeches through, bringing with it a slice of paralysing cold. Before he knows it, he’s stepping out onto the balcony, his shoes tamping down the thick layer of snow. He shudders, immediately immersed in an icy blanket; he can’t see two feet in front of his own face. He knows the tables and chairs must be out here, silently stood waiting out the extreme weather, but they’re invisible amongst the flurry of snow.

Dan stands there for as long as he can stand it, marvelling. In the instant before he heads back inside, he imagines he hears, on the cry of the winds, a man’s voice, low and soft, like crushed velvet. He pauses, ears straining, to see if it will repeat itself, but it doesn’t. He feels a twinge in his chest; it had sounded so close.

*

Dan wakes up in his beanbag chair, gazing disorientedly at the pulsating static of the TV in front of him. He checks the clock on a nearby wall, which reads 10:14pm. He must have dozed off. Bleary-eyed, he unfurls his tight, cramped limbs from the chair and stands, then starts hobbling around the mezzanine to switch off lights and lock doors. The blizzard is going stronger than ever; he’s starting to wonder if it will ever be calm again.

He already locked up downstairs, so Dan just decides to head up to bed. His ankle is slowly feeling less excruciating as time ticks by, but it still takes him an age to make it to the top floor. As usual, he pauses in the hall, listening out for any sounds that might indicate what Phil is up to, whether he’s died of pig-headedness or possibly starvation, but there’s nothing. Only the thin strip of light under his door that presumably means he’s still awake.

Dan gets ready for bed slowly, his impromptu nap having made him sluggish and worn. As he brushes his teeth he stares at the bath, remembering how he’d laid in it last night, and what he’d done. It seems an age has passed since then, and also like it could just as easily have been tonight.

He climbs into bed, sure he’s tired enough to slip straight back into unconsciousness, but the howling outside of his window is verging on a scream. Dan fears for the glass, which rattles precariously in its pane. He lies back on the pillow, wide awake but almost delirious with tiredness, and with the slow, creeping dread of his own ominous sadness inching closer with each second. He can feel the tears on their way, and just hopes that the storm will be enough to drown them out, as Phil surely won’t be in any mood to play soft music tonight, judging by his earlier hostility.

Just as the moisture crests the rims of Dan’s eyes, there’s a knock on his door. Dan’s head snaps towards it, stunned. He waits, wondering if it could somehow have been a noise of the blizzard, projecting across his room. A minute passes, and the knock comes again, not loud, but somehow insistent in its slow, even pattern. Bemused and still half-asleep, Dan swings his legs out of bed, and limps over to the door.

On the other side of it is Phil. Dan blinks in surprise, then wonders who he had been expecting. Possibly nobody, given that he’s only half sure he’s not dreaming.

“What?” Dan asks.

There are faint frown lines nestled into Phil’s forehead, below the flop of his fallen quiff. He’s also wearing glasses - squarish black frames with ‘Dolce and Gabbana’ written on the arms. Dan is momentarily thrown by the sight of him in spectacles, and thinks that in an odd way they complete him, that they seem as if they should always have been there. He’s got what Dan assumes are pyjamas covering the rest of him, though they’re long-sleeved and made of an expensive, starchy material that doesn’t look particularly comfortable.

“Come for a drink,” he says, croaky and quiet. Then he starts moving back towards his room.

“Um,” Dan says pointedly, loudly. “No?”

Phil stops, turns. “Come on,” he says, like this will persuade him.

“Why would I want to come for a drink with you?”

One of Phil’s shoulders shrugs towards his jaw. “S’not like you’re sleeping.”

Dan wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t think he has the energy. “So what? You just assume I’d prefer to hang out in your room while you verbally abuse me?”

Phil runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “Dan-”

“No,” Dan interrupts, hackles rising. “I have to deal with you bossing me around all day, but I’m off duty right now, so I-”

“If I try and go to sleep I’ll just end up jerking off thinking about you again,” Phil says, wearily, like that wasn’t an utterly absurd thing to say. Dan’s eyes widen; suddenly he feels more awake than he has ever felt in his life. “Would you just… come on. The storm’s keeping us up anyway.”

“I…” Dan tries to say, but Phil is already disappearing back into his room.

For a good twenty seconds, Dan is proud to say he is able to keep himself rooted to the spot in his open doorway. He attempts to calmly, rationally do a methodic replay of that conversation, and to substitute various likely things Phil might have said, or meant to have said, instead of what Dan heard him say. Palms about to pour rivers onto the hotel carpet, Dan is, unfortunately, stumped. So, for lack of a better sense of judgement, he blunders into the hall, then pushes Phil’s door, which is ajar.

Dan has only seen the room from the hall before now, but as he steps inside, he realises even that only showed a fraction of it. Mona sometimes refers to this room as the ‘suite’, which Dan had assumed was just her way of indicating it’s the nicest room they have. Now, Dan sees it truly is like a small apartment, complete with a seating area, flat screen TV, a small kitchenette with a microwave, mini-fridge and stove-top, and of course a huge four-poster bed. He also glimpses an ensuite bathroom, but only through the sliver of the almost-closed door. The most eye-catching features of the room are the windows near the bed, which are enormous and imposing, stretching from floor to ceiling. There are some thick, weighty-looking curtains hanging either side of them, wide open, so the roaring blizzard is an unsettling and rather present third character in the room.

Phil is in his small kitchen-y area, reaching into one of the cupboards. Even from here, Dan can see that the only items filling the cupboard are bottles of liquor. He watches Phil pull out a bottle of whiskey.

“What’s your drink?”

“Uh,” Dan says, trying to think of the least pathetic answer, given that he detests most spirits with a passion. “I don’t really...”

Phil’s mouth twitches. “What about a gin and tonic?”

Dan’s shoulders sag in relief. He can tolerate that, at least. “Sure.”

Awkwardly, Dan shuffles a bit further into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. He watches Phil dig in the freezer drawer of his mini-fridge for ice, which Dan can’t help but think is an unnecessary luxury to have given that they live in ice-world. Phil pours Dan’s drink, then sloshes a decent amount of whiskey into his own glass, no mixer.

Something tugs at Dan’s more prudish nature as Phil swipes the drinks from the counter without screwing the lids of the bottles back on, or closing the cupboard door. Still, Dan doesn’t say anything, just accepts the drink Phil hands him, and follows him to the armchairs clustered around a coffee table, which is littered with unopened mail, Phil’s macbook, and a lot of coffee mugs.

They sit opposite one another, listening for a few minutes to the sounds of the storm desperately trying to break through and join them. Mostly in an attempt to shatter the awkward spell, Dan’s finger taps against the side of his glass. All of a sudden, Phil sighs.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

Dan blinks. “You are?”

Phil tips some whiskey into his mouth, then wipes it with the back of his hand. “I feel like I should explain why I sometimes come across sort of…”

“Dickish?” Dan supplies, already tired of this conversation. “Save your breath. You’re a spoiled rich brat whose lost all sense of manners to anyone without a title.”

Phil’s mouth twitches again; he sips more of his drink. “People used to say I was nice.”

“Yeah, yeah, you mentioned. You were a real gem back in the day.”

“I was sweet, people said. And funny.”

“What happened to the sweet part?”

Phil smiles. “So you think I’m funny?”

“Of course that’s the part you zero in on.”

They share a look that Dan doesn’t really understand, despite being on one side of it. Phil slings one leg over the other. “I can’t be sure, but I’d guess that my sweet side was beaten out of me somewhere in the midst of the rigorous Royalty training.”

An image blasts into Dan’s mind: Phil sat at a table with masses of silverware in front of him, being showed the salad fork by a Lordly gentlemen in a tux. “Like in the Princess Diaries?”

Phil snorts. “Not quite.”

Dan waits, sipping a fragrant and startlingly delicious gin and tonic, for Phil to elaborate.

“It’s like you’d imagine, but way worse,” Phil says after a moment’s pause. “My accent was wrong, so I had six months of voice coaching to strip the Northern out of me. Didn’t entirely work as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but you should’ve heard me before. I sounded like Peter Kay.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Phil says, grimacing. “I learned how to bow, how to eat properly, how to address people, how to let Nikolai walk ahead of me into a room. I was told what I’m allowed to publicly like and dislike - music, cinema, art. Nothing too controversial, nothing too political. My favourite band used to be Muse.”

Dan’s mouth drops open. “But you said-”

Phil just shakes his head. “They’re not on the okay-list. I have to pretend I don’t ‘care’ for them. Matt Bellamy is ‘eccentric’ and ‘unpredictable’, apparently.”

“That’s…” Dan shakes his head. “Who’s on the okay-list?”

Phil shrugs. “I only remember a few. Ed Sheeran. Michael Bublé. The Beatles- though they’re on thin ice.”

Something of Dan’s horror must show on his face, because Phil laughs.

Reeling, Dan says, “so, they told you how to act, what to like, what to say…”

“And there were the physical changes, obviously.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

Phil taps a fingertip lightly on the bridge of his nose. “Used to have quite a bump here.”

The hand holding Dan’s drink slowly lowers. He tries not to be too obvious about peering. “You’ve had plastic surgery?”

“Just the nose job.” Phil is fighting a smile at Dan’s expression. “But I also got a whole new wardrobe, teeth whitening…” he tilts his head to the side, thinking, “oh, and eyebrow and eyelash tints of course. I had black hair when I met Nikolai, dyed myself, but I’m more gingery naturally. He wasn’t having  _that_  secret get out.” Phil chuckles to himself, bitterly.

“Fuck me,” Dan breathes, then blushes. To avoid garnering Phil’s reaction, he downs the last of his gin and tonic - the expensive gin is going down a bit too easily. “I don’t know how you put up with it.”

“By expelling all my rage on unsuspecting hotel attendants,” Phil replies in a murmur just loud enough for Dan to hear.

“Oh,” Dan says. “Right.”

“I’m not making excuses for myself, Dan,” Phil says, standing from the chair. He wanders over to the kitchenette and plucks the bottle of gin and the bottle of whiskey from the counter in one, large hand. “It’s just…” he walks over, face contorted in a frown, and refills Dan’s glass - no tonic, this time. Once he’s refilled his own, Phil sits back down, and looks at Dan. “I got used to the idea of being alone up here. Or at least that I wouldn’t have anyone I could be… close to. The guests always leave, so I barely speak to them. There’s just no point in getting to know people that will be gone in a few days.”

Dan opens his mouth to point out that the guests aren’t the only people up here, but Phil gets there first.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Mona and Louise are great. But they’re older, and kind of… work for me, or make it seem that way.”

Dan’s struggling to put himself in Phil’s obnoxiously big designer loafers, but he thinks he  _might just about be on his way to eventually_ understanding. If he really tried. “And then I showed up?”

Phil nods, something like guilt flashing over his features. “Before you came there were a string of people that had your job. They did it poorly. Eighteen year olds wanting to be ‘chalet girls’, elderly men wanting an easy, slow-paced job in the mountains. They were all here for about two weeks and couldn’t hack it. But you…”

“Stayed.”

Phil nods again, distant. “Yeah.”

“Can’t pretend it hasn’t been tempting to run back to reality at times,” Dan says; he’s suddenly growing very warm. 

This conversation feels like he’s walking on the icy surface of a pond, hearing the splinters of it breaking whenever Phil speaks. He glances at the window, wondering if the storm might be dying down, but it’s just as fierce as ever. He must be growing used to the noise. The window pane rattles and shakes, as if reminding him of what lies just beyond.

“I’m ashamed to say,” Phil continues, “that I hated you for staying. I still do.”

Unsure of how to respond, Dan simply stares. 

"You  _hated_  me,” Dan echoes.  _It’s not fair,_  he wants to say. _I didn’t even know what I was doing wrong_. 

“You had freedom and opportunity and a life,” Phil explains. “Friends, university, the ability to walk to the corner shop and buy an ice cream whenever you wanted. Do you know what I’d give to have that again?”

“It’s really not that simple,” Dan says tightly. 

“No, I know,” Phil leans back in his seat, sighing. “It never is. But you’re so young, and irritatingly cute. I just look at you and get pissed off, thinking about what you gave up.”

There’s an adjective in there that’s unlike the others. “...cute?”

Phil cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t act dumb, it’s unbecoming. You know you’re pretty.”

Dan blanches, the heat in his cheeks swelling. “Um… w-what?”

“Really, that just makes it even worse,” Phil says ruefully, sipping. “I got used to the idea I’d live in forced isolation up here, wallowing in my unhappy marriage and never experiencing any kind of attraction again. But you…”

Dan begs, silently, desperately, for him to finish that thought. But he doesn’t. His tongue, unscrewed by four fingers of gin, pushes the next words out of his mouth, mostly because he feels like he’ll explode if they’re kept inside. 

“Before,” he blurts, “in the hall. You said… did you say…”

Slowly, Phil’s eyes refocus on him, and a smile spreads over his mouth. “Hm?”

Dan swallows more gin, then places the glass down so it won’t be obvious he’s shaking. “Do you really, like, think about me. When you… when you…”

“Yes.”

Dan isn’t really sure which answer would have been preferable. “That’s… strange.”

Phil laughs. “Stranger to do it in the bath.”

Mortification whips through Dan from sternum to gut - surely, no. Surely life isn’t that cruel.

“Fun fact,” Phil says, still smiling. “Our bathrooms share a wall.” Dan’s eyes close, and he prays for the storm to finally break through that damn rattling window and sweep the two of them away. “I picked a really good moment to pee last night…”

“That was…” Dan tries, floundering. “It’s not what you think.”

“Relax,” Phil says, as if Dan could possibly ever be in with a chance of relaxing again. “I did exactly the same thing two minutes later. Possibly less.”

There’s a volcano erupting in either of Dan’s cheeks. He grips the arm of his chair tightly, avoiding Phil’s eye. “You just… you caught me off guard. Kissing me. It was so…”

“Dumb,” Phil finishes, though that was not the word Dan had in mind. “I know. I’m sorry about that. Wasn’t… planned.”

“So why’d you do it?” Dan asks, voice barely a whisper.

Phil shrugs; Dan can just about see the movement in the corner of his eye, given that he’s focused resolutely on the carpet. “I was a bit drunk. Inhibitions were M.I.A, and all that.”

“Does that mean... you want to kiss me all of the time, but you just usually are sober enough to stop yourself?”

“God, no,” Phil says, letting out a laugh so abrupt that Dan’s skin sizzles in humiliation. “Most of the time I want to kick you in the shin. But occasionally…”

He trails off, but Dan doesn’t need him to finish the sentence.  _Occasionally_ , for some mad, inexplicable reason, Dan is apparently irresistible to the man in front of him. The information won’t settle properly into his brain, so it floats about in the membrane, distracting and beguiling.

Suddenly, Phil yawns. It’s such a perfect segue into running away that Dan almost weeps. “I should get to bed,” he almost shouts. He’s feeling more than a bit tipsy, worsened by the quickening of his pulse; hie eyelids are drooping, and his limbs drag as he moves, though he feels hyper-alert. “Thanks for the, uh, apology and everything, I’ll see you in the morning-”

“You should sleep here.”

Dan stiffens, dragging his eyes up to meet Phil’s. “Sleep… where?” Gently, Phil inclines his head towards the enormous four poster; Dan turns to stare at it, already intimidated. “You want me to sleep in your bed?” he squeaks. “With you?”

“It’s massive. You could roll over twice and never touch me.”

“But why?”

Phil gets slowly to his feet; his joints click as he moves, but somehow he manages to look graceful about it. “Look, Dan, the way I see it, we could both go back to our separate beds, lie awake listening to the horrendous storm until you start bawling your eyes out and I start… using other methods to lull me to sleep.” Another eruption of lava in the volcanic region of Dan’s face spills over, and he tries not to squeak indignantly. “Or,” Phil continues, and Dan, traitorously, latches on, “we could do the mutually beneficial and probably inevitable thing, and sleep here together, under controlled conditions.”

“What do you mean ‘probably inevitable?” Dan demands, heart thumping wildly. 

Already his mind is there, in the bed beside Phil, letting their body heat seep between them through the shared bedclothes, listening to Phil’s quiet breaths, the twitches of his body as he dreams... He shakes his head forcefully, trying to expel the weird fantasy; it doesn’t help much, he’s still longing for it, desperate to say  _yes, yes, yes_ , for a reason he cannot explain.  

Phil doesn’t answer, just arches one sculpted eyebrow and waits. Dan chews his lip, attempting to mull this decision over with the appropriate amount of common sense. Given that he’s two strong G & T’s in, and bone tired to boot, it’s not going well. On one hand, sleeping in the same bed as a married man, especially one he doesn’t even like, is bordering on madness. But on the other, Phil is completely correct that there’s no way Dan could get to sleep alone, now that he knows precisely what Phil would be doing in here - whilst picturing him, no less.

“I’ll even play music for you,” Phil goads, acting the Saint; he’s wearing that irritating smile he seems to save just for Dan, like he’s already won.

 _Damn it_. “Whatever, fine. But we’re on separate sides. No, like,  _cuddling_.”

Phil pulls a face, then reaches for his phone. “As if I’d try that with your bony frame. I’d probably wake up bruised from all your pointy limbs.”

“You might still wake up bruised if you don’t shut up,” Dan mutters, then realises the sexual interpretation of that statement. 

Luckily, Phil says nothing, just taps something on his phone screen, and then in a beautiful cresting wave, music swims through the air. Phil pockets his phone again, then walks around to switch off some lights. Dan stands gormlessly, watching him gather glasses and half-heartedly tidy up, until finally he heads over to the bed and climbs in. 

“Water’s fine,” he says, removing his glasses and patting the covers beside him.

Dan hesitates, but quickly decides it’s preferable to be beside Phil in the bed, where the other man’s short-sightedness will likely make him just a shapeless blur, than to be dithering in the middle of the room for Phil to scrutinise. He moves slowly and awkwardly to the other side of the bed, ankle stiff and unaccommodating, then pulls the covers back, and slides in. Phil is, mercifully, correct. There are acres of space between them, even though Dan is acutely aware of their proximity. It’s somehow worse that Phil seems completely unbothered by the peculiarity of this arrangement, and doesn’t even pay Dan much attention as he settles into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Night, then.”

“Uh, night,” Dan replies, and Phil reaches out, and switches off his bedside light.

In the silence that ensues, Dan can feel the liquid awareness they have of each other soaking into his skin. He wonders if he should turn over, face away from Phil and squeeze his eyes closed, listen to the sweet sounds of the music and will himself into unconsciousness.

Before he can move, Phil speaks. “Dan?”

“Mhm?”

“I… probably shouldn’t have said that stuff about, y’know… jerking off to the thought of you.”

A lance of something akin to embarrassment, but tinged with a sharper, more electric pulse, shoots through Dan’s pelvic region. “It’s, er, fine. I won’t, like, leak it to the papers if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Yeah, thanks. But I meant… if it made you feel weird-”

“No, uh, I don’t… I don’t mind-”

“You don’t  _mind_?”

A very low string instrument, possibly a cello, begins weaving a slow, gradual crescendo through the melody. 

“Um.” 

His heart is racing, and he’s lost track of what he’s even saying. He should shut up, he should roll over and shut up, but his mouth is unstopper-able when alcohol is involved. Plus… there’s something about being so near to Phil but not actually able to  _see_  him that makes him almost tolerable. Without his smug smile in view, it’s even possible to pretend that he’s just a reasonable, young, attractive man. A man that lies in this very bed sometimes, conjures up an image of Dan’s face and-

“Dan?”

“No, I don’t mind,” Dan blurts, glad of the shroud of darkness obliterating his highly-pigmented flush from Phil’s ridicule.

“So you wouldn’t mind if I just did it right now?”

Is it too late to back up? “Uh… no. Do what you want.”

In the next second, it becomes painfully clear, due to Phil’s responding stunned silence, that he’d been joking. The cellos increase in number; possibly there are some double basses involved. 

“Let me get this straight,” Phil says, voice a bit hoarse suddenly. “You’re telling me that you would be totally fine with me indulging in some self-love, right here beside you.”

Dan shrugs, face on fire, then remembers that Phil cannot see him. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Even though I’ve previously told you,” Phil continues, because apparently the gods don’t grant prayers of sudden and unexpected meteors ploughing through the roof, “that I’d be thinking about you the whole time?”

“None of my business,” Dan manages, then presses his lips together in a vain attempt at shutting himself the fuck up.

The ensuing pause is weighty and brimming with Phil’s utter astonishment. Some high strings are audible now, slicing through the darker, deeper sounds; the sound of them set are making Dan’s pulse quicken. There’s a bit of shifting, and the mattress wobbles, jolting Dan. Confused, Dan turns his head, able to make out the shape of Phil on his back, wriggling around beneath the covers. He’s about to ask what the hell he’s doing, and then, like a switch flicking, it becomes painfully,  _excruciatingly_  obvious.

Phil’s breaths start soft and shaky, like tiny gasps and sighs, regulated by the slow scissoring of the violins. As if they’re a guide for his movement, he times the pump of his hand to their rhythm, and Dan drowns in the knowledge. It’s entirely dark in this room - Phil’s blackout curtains are an unexpected revelation - but the longer Dan stares at Phil’s profile, the more his eyes adjust. The more he looks, the more he can pick out - Phil’s sharp, bump-less nose, the convex curve of his parted lips, the shudder of his chin as he draws jittery breaths. His shoulders are out of the covers, and his right one moves deliberately, up and down as the crescendo builds, working the hand he has wrapped around his-

“Ah-hh,” Phil shudders on an exhale; at this point, Dan is so light-headed from the lack of blood reaching his brain that he thinks he might pass out. All he hears are Phil’s breaths, intermingling with the agonisingly gradual build of the song. He’s definitely pacing himself to it, must know the dips and troughs of this piece; perhaps he’s even done this before, as Dan has listened right next door.

Instead of rolling over, instead of fleeing or doing anything remotely sensible, all Dan can do is fixate on the sight in front of him - a sight that nobody, not even himself twenty minutes prior, would ever believe was really happening. Just as he’s certain he’s about to burst into flames, Phil rolls onto his side, and those eyes, somehow still crystal clear even in the darkness of the night, lock onto his.

“Fuck,” Dan says inadvertently, under his breath.

A sudden burst of percussion splashes into play, and Phil speeds up the movement of his hand. “Say something else,” Phil says, voice desperate as Dan’s never heard. 

Dan is too hard to dare consider refusing, so just remains rigid as his mind flounders- words? What are words? He stares straight into Phil’s glazed eyes, able to only think of one. “Phil,” he says, like he’s in agony. “Phil.” 

“Dan,” Phil whispers back. By now the crescendo is almost at its climax. Dan has heard enough classical music to know that soon, the peak of the refrain will crest, and it will slow, then peter away. He wishes it wouldn’t. He wishes, fervently, that the song would never end. Phil’s eyes flutter closed, and it’s awful. Dan can hardly bear for the sight of those blue whirlpools to be stolen from him. “Dan,” Phil says again, and it’s more beautiful than any song Dan’s ever heard.

The music swells into a brief cacophony, like a wave crashing over them, soaking their skin, their hair, the sheets. Phil shudders, hard and violent, lip caught between his teeth. He makes little noise, but his breathing is erratic, and then he rolls onto his back, and slackens. The music seems to loosen him, limb by limb, until he is boneless, ragged. 

Beside him, Dan lies stiffly, so aroused he can’t think, can’t speak, can’t move; as Phil is drifting to shore, Dan is still far out in the midst of the ocean, slipping under the salty water with each breath he draws. Is this the end of it? Is Phil expecting Dan to just roll over and go to sleep after watching that?

“Night, then.”

Apparently yes, that’s exactly what he’s expecting, the git. Dan bites the inside of his cheek, trying to guess how many hours it will take to will away his powerful erection, given that he can still hear the echo of his name in Phil’s voice as he came. The song isn’t over; it continues dragging sweet, soft notes across Dan’s mind, keeping him lucid. There’s no use playing with an alternative solution to Phil’s apparent desire to just leave things there. Phil might be a willing exhibitionist, but Dan certainly is not.

“Okay,” Dan whispers, surrendering to an agonising and likely sleepless wait for morning to come. “Night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Ten coming next Friday 8pm GMT!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise visitor

Dan wakes up disoriented in a bed that he’s sure isn’t his, with a sense that he’s done something irreversible - has crossed some barrier that he can’t pass back over. Softened by drink and overtiredness, it takes a few seconds for his brain to click into gear. He starts small, trying to place the bed and the room. From the décor he can tell he’s probably still somewhere in the hotel, and mostly through a process of elimination, as he’s been in every other room, he manages to figure out that it’s Phil’s room. Which means... oh God.  _Phil’s bed_. 

He stiffens, suddenly horrified. It takes a quick glance at his thankfully clothed body to rule out any explanation  _too_  awful, but then, as he smooths a hand over the exposed patch of cream bedsheet beside him, he remembers everything.  _Interlocked eyes through a shroud of darkness. The quickening tempo of sliding strings. His own name, on the breath of a man lost to ecstasy._  In the background, he realises that the white noise he can hear is the sound of a shower running. Dan’s breathing settles from hyperventilation to more of a nervous pant now that he’s sure Phil is not about to spring out at him, but it’s still mortifying to know that all too soon, he will emerge from the bathroom, and they will have to talk to each other. 

Like it’s latched on to Dan’s paranoia, the shower stops, and Dan’s heart lurches into his throat. He runs a hand through his messy curls, scrubs some sleep dust from his eyes, and tries to think of something - anything - appropriate to say. He doesn’t get very far. Phil walks out of his ensuite with a towel around his waist, and another draped over his broad shoulders. At this point, seeing Phil shirtless shouldn’t be all that shocking, but Dan’s lower stomach still twists and tightens as his eyes fall to that smattering of chest hair.

“Oh, hey,” Phil says, ruffling his wet hair with the towel. He glances disinterestedly towards the window. “Storm’s passed.”

“Hi,” Dan croaks. Before he can stop them, memories, thick and vivid, spring at him like excitable wolves. A shadowed figure, across from him in this bed, not bothering to stifle the groans slipping out as he pleasured himself out of view, murmuring Dan’s name. He swallows hard, averting his eyes. “Yeah, that’s... good. What time is it?”

“Late,” Phil says, raising an eyebrow. “I know I’m the only guest, but any chance you’ll get up for work soon? I need coffee.”

Mercifully, Dan detects the snide accusation tucked in Phil’s words, and the familiar annoyance that blooms in Dan’s chest is a welcome relief. They can, it seems, slip back into their usual dynamic, and perhaps never speak of last night ever again. 

He throws the covers off himself, keen to get back to normality. “I see you’re right back to being a dick-brain,” Dan says cheerfully, swinging his feet to the carpet. “So much for the apology.”

“Apology?” Phil tilts his head to the side. “Oh, right you mean last night. Well, you know. You were all moody. Had to appease you somehow, and I thought a nice ‘sorry’ and a couple of G & T’s would do the trick. No use having the only member of staff around here despising me. You might’ve spit in my macchiato.” 

Despite the half-hearted attempt to swallow everything he’s said last night back up, Dan knows Phil’s defence mechanisms well enough by now to see through them. He’s just embarrassed, probably, at having had to apologise in the first place. 

Drawing a deep, long breath, Dan makes the valiant decision to let it go. He stands, a bit wobbly as his ankle is always worse first thing in the morning, and begins limping towards the door. 

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” Dan says. “I’ll make the coffee after.”  He pauses in the middle of the room, remembering all the food he’d brought up yesterday. “Hey, what happened to that tray? I’ll take it down.”

“I already did,” Phil says off-handedly, pulling the towel from his shoulders. He throws it onto the bed, then reaches for the one at his waist.

Dan, already red, turns sharply away before he sees anything; he can still hear the ‘whump’ as the towel drops however, and shuts his eyes in a vain attempt not to picture the sight of Phil behind him, entirely naked. It doesn’t work.

“Wh-what do you mean you already did?” Dan squeaks.

“I mean,” Phil says slowly, like he’s talking to a halfwit, “yesterday after I ate the soup and pizza, I took the tray down to the kitchen, washed the plates and put the stuff away.”

“Oh,” Dan says, simmering with heat and confusion.  _Naked. Phil is naked right now, right behind me. All I’d have to do is turn ninety degrees and-_ “Right. Well… okay, then.”  _Naked. Naked, naked, naked. No clothes, no towels, all wet and-_ “I’ll just...”

“I’ll have a double macchiato,” Phil says, nakedly. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

Dan all but bolts from the room then, pretending with all his might that he didn’t hear the smirk nestled in Phil’s voice. 

*

The coffee machine seems uncooperative at first; it’s only after attempting to refill the espresso drip for the third time that Dan remembers he hasn’t switched it on. He rolls his eyes at himself, but allows some leeway for his own stupidity, given that his mind is positively reeling from all that’s happened over the past couple of days. His hands are jittering manically, and he’s yet to ingest any caffeine.

He watches his shaking fingers as he pours the frothed milk into two mugs, frowning. They seem a little more shaky than is perhaps normal, the more he looks. He stops pouring, placing the chrome jug down on a nearby counter, wondering vaguely if he might be about to jerk into some kind of spasm born of extreme sexual frustration. Getting to sleep last night after Phil’s little display had been just this side of agonising. 

Then, he notices the coffee machine is jiggling too, the metal contraption rattling alarmingly. In fact, as he looks around, the entire kitchen seems to be unstabling. Dan freezes in alarm, terrified he’s about to be buried alive by an earthquake-induced avalanche. Unsure of what else to do, he grabs the jug of milk to save it from falling and splashing everywhere. A loud, sneering roar suddenly fills his ears, sounding like an angry robotic buzzard, zooming overhead. Just before Dan has time to think about any rational reaction, the quaking stops, and the noise dies down into a more palatable stutter, then ceases entirely.

Still clutching the warm jug, Dan stands rigid in the middle of the kitchen, dumbed and petrified. Somewhere above him, he hears someone running down the stairs. In a matter of seconds, Phil appears at the serving hatch, hair still damp and messy, his glasses askew on his nose. Dan blinks at the sight of him, and his limbs release some of their tension.

“Dan, that was-”

“Is this an earthquake?” Dan squeaks, and Phil shoves a hand into his hair, despairingly.

“No,” he says. “I- I’m sorry, I had no idea he was coming. He never tells me-”

“Who’s coming?” Dan asks, flummoxed. 

Nobody ‘comes’ here. They’re in limbo. They’re up a literal goddamn mountain. Phil’s face is pained, panicked - he’s dithering on the spot and looking around frantically, as if he’s unsure what to do. Dan’s can’t remember him being anything other than aloof or furious, so this is a peculiar sight.

“Just give him a coffee or something,” Phil says urgently, already backing away. “He’ll be insufferable, and you’ll want to hit him but I think that counts as treason, so don’t. I just need to- just give me five minutes.”

And then he’s gone. Dan stares at the empty serving hatch, stunned and confused. He thinks he can make out some vague, distant voices, echoing off the peaks outside. People. Real, living people. There aren’t guests booked, as far as he knows. He’s so lost he can’t make sense of a word Phil just threw his way. Then there are the distinct sounds of feet tramping through snow; he’s not hallucinating, the noise is unmistakable now. And what had that earlier sound been? The machine-roar? It had almost sounded like a small, very close… plane.

And then, as swift and impactful as a real avalanche, the realisation smacks into Dan, hard.

There’s a lordly, somehow disapproving pounding on the front door. Dan places the jug down slowly, wide-eyed. He realises then that, somewhat unhelpfully, his mind is only half-here. The other half, traitorously, treacherously, is still lost somewhere in the sheets of Phil’s enormous bed. With only half a functioning brain - one that doesn’t do so well at functioning at full capacity anyway - he cannot predict how he’s going to deal with the situation that’s apparently on the other side of the front door. He’s the only person other than Phil in the whole hotel, so he has to answer that door, has to act the part of the concierge, despite barely feeling he can act the part of a human being. He swallows hard, sure he must smell of Phil’s room, of Phil’s breath, his shampoo. He cards hands through his hair, smooths down his un-ironed shirt, and walks briskly to the lobby stairs. 

Again, that loud pounding comes from the other side of the door, and Dan tries with all his might to picture what he’s going to find on the other side. When he reaches the wooden pane, he takes a deep breath, tries to brace himself as best he can, and pulls the bolt back, then turns the key in the lock. Before he can make any move to open it, the door swings open, nearly knocking him flying, and in swarms a hoard of people, maybe five or six, led by a man of medium height, with such an air of importance in his stature that Dan knows instantly who he is.

“I forget just how bloody  _freezing_  this damn place is,” Sir Nikolai Novokoric booms in a thin, barely-there Swiss accent.

He’s obviously been through some rigorous voice-coaching of his own to try and rid himself of it; the effect leaves him with a stunted, slow manner of speaking, which certainly pulls attention, if the rest of him failed to do so. He’s in a long, Sherlock-style coat, unbuttoned despite the temperature outside, beneath which his embroidered shirt collar peeks over a dark v-neck jumper. His black jeans are tight, and obviously designer, as are his leather gloves, which he sets about pulling off neatly, and handing to a woman with a shock of unnaturally red hair standing nearby.

“Don’t they ever renovate this place?” Nikolai asks seemingly everyone, though nobody responds. “At least it’s warm, I suppose.” He strolls across the lobby floor to the front desk and bangs a hand on the surface three times. “Hello?” he calls. “Staff? Are we expected to wait on ourselves?”

It hits Dan then, a little late, that none of the people in the room have noticed him standing here, partially concealed by the open door. He clears his throat, embarrassed that he’s been stood here gormlessly staring for the past minute.

“S-sorry,” Dan says, then silently curses his choice of opening - perfectly in character, some might say. “I’ll be right with you.”

He shuts the door firmly, then turns, pink-cheeked, as Sir Nikolai whirls around to face him, coat flying with the movement. Now that Dan is seeing him face-on, he can confirm that Phil was, indeed, correct about Sir Nikolai being... conventionally attractive. He’s got a thin face, with high, razor-sharp cheekbones- even sharper than Phil’s. His hair is a dark caramel and styled in a perfect sweeping quiff. He’s clean-shaven, and has big, pink, full lips that curl into an utterly charming smile.

“Ah,” he says, taking Dan in with one quick glance up and down. “Grand.” He paces across the room towards Dan, with rather alarming intent. Dan freezes, unsure what’s about to happen; whatever he’d expected, it was not being wrapped in a tight, almost unbreathable hug. Dazed by the sudden gesture, and choking slightly on whatever expensive cologne Sir Nikolai has dunked himself in, Dan manages to lift his arms and awkwardly return the embrace. Almost the moment Dan’s hands make contact with the back of Sir Nikolai’s coat, he’s released. Sir Nikolai leans away, grinning widely. His teeth are jarringly white. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet! Sir Nikolai Novokoric, and you are?.”

“Uh, D-Dan.” His own name suddenly feels startlingly dull. “Nice to meet you, Sir.”

“ _Daniel_ ,” Nikolai repeats with an unexplainable wink, like he’s committing it to memory.  “Such a shame that I don’t get to spend more time up here with you lovely folk,” Nikolai says as he removes his coat. The customer service worker in Dan leaps into action just in time to catch the coat as its flung at him, and fold it carefully over one arm. “But then, I feel that way about every part of my dear country. I’m sure you understand, Daniel.” 

“Um,” Dan says, not entirely sure that he does. “I- I expect your schedule is-”

“Oh, horrendous!” he cries, glancing at the red-haired lady. “Isn’t it, Corn? How many meetings and events do I have, on average, each week?” Dan turns to her as she starts to reply, but before she can get anything out, Nikolai says, “I’m sure Phil is always griping about me being too busy for him.” 

He winks at Dan again, which only succeeds in unsettling him. “I, er, I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t speak a whole lot about... personal matters.” 

_It’s not exactly a lie._

“Oh, how I envy you, Daniel,” Nikolai says with a trill of laughter, then reaches to pat Dan on the arm. It feels ingenuine, somehow, like forced camaraderie. Dan has to fight not to pull his arm away. Luckily, he’s been trained rigorously to politely endure inane chatter with tedious customers, so manages a responding smile. “He won’t shut up about all his many terrible inconveniences to me,” Nikolai says with a sigh. “Must be dreadful for him up here in his luxury penthouse, with the run of the land and a limitless tab, don’t you think?”

It’s at this point exactly that Dan makes up his mind about just what he thinks of Sir Nikolai, and where he can stick his holier-than-thou attitude and false, creepy ‘ _look,_   _I’m just one of the people!’_  mask. What the hell does he even know about whether Phil has any right to complain about his living conditions? According to Phil, and Mona, and everyone else, Sir Nikolai barely even visits him. 

Dan is still floundering for a terse, polite response, when Nikolai apparently grows bored of waiting. 

“Anyway,” he announces loftily. “I’ve come to collect my dear husband, so I suppose I’d better find him. Is he about?”

 _Just give me five minutes_ , Phil had said. Dan pauses, thinking rapidly of another means of stalling. He’s not keen to do Phil any particular favours, but given that this man is unspeakably awful, and Phil is turning out to be only a tiny bit awful, Dan supposes he’s on Phil’s side. Just this once. 

 “Um, he’s... just getting ready,” Dan says quickly. “If you follow me up to the mezzanine lounge, I can get you some refreshments, and then I’ll go and tell him-”

“No, no, don’t bother,” Nikolai interrupts, straightening his collar. “Corn, are you bothered about drinks or anything? We should probably head straight off, no?”

The woman with red hair looks reluctant, but nods. For the first time, Dan casts his gaze over the rest of the ensemble, and realises that he’s being photographed. The noise of the shutter is quiet enough that he’d barely noticed it until now, but seeing the large DSLR camera in the hands of a young, curly-haired, bright-eyed gentleman, it’s obvious. Obviously, Dan is presumably not the primary subject of the photos, but given that he’s right next to Sir Nikolai, he’s clearly in shot. He blushes involuntarily, thinking of his un-showered, sleepless look.

“I’ll run up and get him myself then, shall I?” Nikolai asks pointedly in response to Dan’s silence.

“Oh!” Dan exclaims, blushing. “I can go-”

“Don’t bother,” Nikolai says sweetly. His charming smile is suddenly very punchable. “Room eight, isn’t it?”

Dan nods quietly, embarrassed by his own show of incompetence.

“And Phil says I don’t pay attention to him,” Sir Nikolai says, shooting a grin at the red haired lady. “Right, wish me luck everyone. If I don’t return in five minutes, he’s bitten my head off. So... inform the papers.”

Sir Nikolai bounds up the stairs, spritely and unconcerned despite his parting comment. Dan stares after him worriedly, knowing there’s nothing he can do to warn Phil, or to supervise the oncoming scene. He tries to imagine the conversation that might be had between the man he slept next to last night, and the man he just met. He can’t so much as picture Nikolai and Phil in the same room, let alone exchanging words.

“Excuse me,” the woman with red hair says, breaking Dan out of his spell. She steps forwards wearily. “Don’t suppose you could ignore that giant bozo and whip up a quick round of coffees?”

Dan immediately decides he likes this woman. “Sure,” he replies, laughing breathily. “Do you all want to come upstairs? There are chairs and tables.”

There’s a general sigh of relief amongst the group, all of whom begin lowering their clipboards, cameras, iPads and trunks full of who knows what. Dan leads the way, going slow until the red-haired woman, who introduces herself as “Cornelia Dahlgren, Personal Assistant and Publicist to Sir Nikolai Novokoric”, offers her arm when she sees him limping. She’s warm and chatty, with a general air of  _‘I’m far too intelligent for this position but I’m aware of it and I’m sucking it up for now’_. She enquires after Dan’s injury, but Dan decides no matter how personable this woman is, she’s working for the one man who probably shouldn’t know too much about the past weekend Dan and Phil have spent together. Instead, he tells her he slipped while sweeping snow from around the hot tub.

“God, I have no idea how you can stand it up here,” Cornelia says in response, helping Dan up the final stair. “I’m Swedish, but even I couldn’t handle somewhere this cold and remote.”

“You get used to it,” Dan finds himself saying. He’s not sure he actually has, though. Perhaps if unexpected developments didn’t keep slamming him from all sides, he could attempt to find some normalcy in this mountain lifestyle. “So, coffees. Who wants what?”

He takes orders from everyone, learning names as he goes. The photographer is named PJ, and has the same ‘ _isn’t this funny, look at us working for a silly, trumped-up Royal’_  attitude that Cornelia projects when he speaks of his profession. There’s a blonde lady named Bryony whose whole job is to keep Nikolai’s hair looking pretty, and an Irish woman named Hazel, who is in charge of his wardrobe. Both of them have a small bag on wheels, which Dan presumes are full of emergency supplies in case he falls in a puddle or something. Finally, there’s Max, a heavy-set, straight-backed man wearing one of those discreet microphones on his ear, and not saying a whole lot. He doesn’t introduce himself, but Dan is pretty sure he’s security.

The jug of milk Dan had been frothing earlier is still warm, but Dan decides to make a fresh load; his head pounds as he works, completely overwhelmed. He has no clue what these people are actually doing here, he realises - Nikolai hadn’t explained. Is this a frequent occurrence? Does Nikolai ever phone ahead, or does he just drop by in a surprise visit every few months with a gaggle of workers, specifically to cause the hotel staff heart attacks? In the future, Dan will need to be more careful. If Nikolai had arrived an hour earlier-

Dan burns himself on some flying milk droplets, and curses. He should  _not_  be having those kinds of thoughts. What happened last night was an anomaly. A rare, unusual, one-time happenstance that will never, ever be repeated. This weekend has been a storm-and-isolation-induced bout of shared madness between two people; once Mona and Louise return, along with some actual guests, everything will settle down and this whole business can be forgotten. He and Phil will return to barely being civil to one another, and Dan will never have to worry about Nikolai dropping by unannounced, because there will be nothing for him to accidentally walk in on.

By the time he carries the tray full of coffees out into the mezzanine lounge, Dan is shaking so much he’s surprised he doesn’t drop them everywhere. Everyone retrieves their drinks gratefully, practically chugging them straight away as they slump into chairs and across tables.

“He’s a slave driver,” Cornelia explains, patting Hazel on the back as she fakes a sob into the crook of her elbow. “Got us all up at four this morning and herded us onto the plane. Insisted we needed a head-start because he wants Phil to undergo a buttload of beauty treatments before tonight.”

“I hate event days,” Bryony says, slurping her matcha latte.

“What’s tonight?” Dan asks, watching PJ flick through his camera roll, and discreetly trying to see if he’s in any of the photos.

“It’s a big charity thing,” Cornelia answers, flapping a hand in the air. She sips some green tea. “What is it, Max? Some LGBT-thing, right? I forget what exactly. Anyway, Nik’s the largest contributor. He’s getting some fancy certificate and he wants Phil there to gaze on admiringly for the cameras.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden. His intestines seem to be knotting themselves together. “Do you guys want something to eat? We haven’t got a lot, but there’s some snacks around-”

“Better not without his Lordship’s permission,” Cornelia says, though she smiles gratefully at Dan. “You can go ahead and stick the drinks on his tab though.”

“Oh no, that’s okay-”

“Dan,” Cornelia says, raising her eyebrows. “Don’t be a hero. He’s got stacks of money. He won’t miss the price of a few coffees.”

Dan smiles back, but inside his guts are writhing. By this point, Sir Nikolai and Phil have been upstairs together for at least twenty minutes. Perhaps they’re locked in a fiery passion, rolling atop the very sheets Dan slept on last night. The image is enough to have sluice up the acid in Dan’s stomach, sending a ripple of nausea through him. It’s an unlikely scenario, Dan is pretty sure, but he has very little real idea of the relationship Phil and Nikolai share. He’s only heard Phil’s side of it, after all, and that account had been born of a long stewing hatred from being left alone up here so long. Perhaps their relationship is purely physical, and they don’t talk at all. They’re both intimidatingly attractive men after all, and they are  _married_. Is it so inconceivable that right now, they’re tangled up together, grunting and moaning and- 

Before Dan can think himself into a fit of insanity, there comes the unmistakable sound of someone briskly jogging down the stairs. The party of coffee-drinkers suddenly sit upright in their chairs - Max even stands up, hands clasping together in front of him.

When Nikolai emerges, he’s flushed, with a slight frown creasing his forehead. He goes straight to Cornelia, takes her wrist and pulls her into a corner, where he begins speaking in a low murmur that Dan can’t overhear. He thinks about attempting to sneak off at this point, perhaps to go sit in a dark cupboard and hyperventilate, but he turns towards the stairs, and almost bumps straight into Phil. He’d moved so silently down the stairs that Dan hadn’t heard him, but now he walks across the mezzanine, a YSL overnight bag over his shoulder, and dressed in all black. He doesn’t spare Dan a glance, despite the fact he is stood in the centre of the lounge like a lemon, obviously lost and out of place.

“Phil!” Bryony cries as she sees him, and jumps up to wrap her arms around him. He lets her, just about, but barely returns the embrace. His expression is hardened and fierce; as Dan remembers from many occasions, this generally means he’s seconds away from exploding. “God, I missed you,” Bryony says, apparently totally sincere. She reaches up and plays with his quiff, moving some strands of hair this way and that. “What’ve you been putting on this? How many times do I have to tell you about monthly hair masks-”

“Right!” Nikolai announces brightly, making everyone - even Dan - turn to look. He claps his hands together and sweeps across to stand in the middle of the room beside Dan, who shrinks back at once. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us, so let’s try not to mess about, alright? I’d rather this whole thing went smoothly, as I expect my darling husband will put up enough of a fight for all seven of us.”

Shocked by the casual diss, Dan glances at Phil, who remains stony-faced but silent, staring at a spot on a nearby table. When we get to Milan Phil and I will be going straight into our tux fittings, then we’ll move on to hair and makeup. I want all hands on deck, so no texting the boyfriend or updating your story, got it? Good. The pilot’s keeping the engine warm, so let’s get the hell off this mountain before the lack of oxygen makes me break out.”

As Nikolai speaks, Dan is intently aware of Phil’s responding scowls and eye-rolls. Again, he wonders what was spoken between them up in room eight, as it clearly wasn’t a peace offering.

“Oh, and Daniel,” Nikolai says. It takes Dan a moment to realise that Nikolai is addressing him, mostly because as soon as the long version of his name leaves the nobleman’s mouth, Phil noticeably stiffens, facing Dan in alarm. “Would you grab your boss for me? I’d like a word about my standing deposit.”

“I-I’m sorry but Mona isn’t here,” Dan replies. “She had a personal emergency. I’m acting as manager while she’s away. Can I help you, or…?”

Nikolai frowns. “What about your chef? The bubbly one. She’s the sort-of ... deputy, isn’t she?”

Dan glances at Phil, whose eyes flick worriedly between he and Nikolai, lips pressed closed. “Um. Yes,” Dan replies distractedly. “She’s away too. She should be back today, though.”

“Is there anyone else here?”

Dan has to fight the urge to look at Phil for the right thing to say. He manages, just. “No. It’s just been me. And- and Phil.”

A moment passes where not even Nikolai’s team utter a word, and then the corner of his mouth curves upwards. “So you’ve had to endure my dear heart’s wrath all on your own! Gosh, you poor thing. Remind me to double your tip.”

He winks, laughing, but Dan is too nervous to join in. Nikolai laughs harder when he sees Phil’s pissed-off face.

“Would you lighten up, love? I’m only joking.”

Phil shakes his head. “Of course,  _love_.”

As Phil turns from the scene, something sparkles, catching the light. Dan’s eyes fall to Phil’s hand; there, on his ring finger, instead of the usual demure silver band, is an enormous, Princess-cut diamond.

*

What Dan would have liked to happen, is for Phil to have pulled him aside, just briefly, and explained what the fuck is going on, why he didn’t mention he’s jetting off to Milan today, and when he’ll be back. Instead, aside from that one instance, Phil doesn’t so much as meet his eye. Now they’re stood in the lobby, Nikolai is shouting instructions at Cornelia, who is speaking to the pilot of the private plane they arrived in through her mobile phone.

“Is he aware we’ve got to be in Milan at two?!”

Cornelia covers the phone with her hand, glaring at Nikolai. “He’s checking the engine so we don’t all die mid-flight.”

“Tell him to hurry it up,” Nikolai barks. Phil is slumped in a nearby chair, scowling at his phone. He’s dressed smarter than normal, Dan notices. He can see several more prominent designer labels on his dark, chic outfit. “Christ, must  _everyone_  I hire be totally incompetent?”

“How smart of you to ask that to a room of people you hire,” Phil says snarkily, not bothering to look up. Nikolai just rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” Cornelia says, hanging up the phone. “Plane’s ready. Let’s roll.”

Unexpectedly, the door swings open with a sudden crash, and in strolls Kaspar, followed closely by Louise, who is talking animatedly at Kaspar about the fragile contents of her bag, which Kaspar is holding above his head.

“Oh, for God’s-” Nikolai murmurs, but cuts himself off with that dazzling smile he’d aimed in Dan’s direction earlier.

“There she is!” Nikolai booms, arms spreading. Louise stops in her tracks when she spots him, seeming mildly alarmed, but as Nikolai approaches, she carefully opens her arms to return the hug. He leans in and squeezes, despite the thick, snow-covered coat she’s wearing. “This place is barely the same without you, my sweet.  _So_  glad to catch you before we ran off.”

“Yes, um, lovely to see you, Sir Nikolai,” Louise says, sounding a tiny bit strained. He releases her, and she takes a hasty step backwards, shooting an unreadable look at Kaspar. “Off? You’re leaving?”

Phil stands from his chair, moving towards her, and wraps a gentle pair of arms around her neck. It’s a display of affection so genuine that Dan is startled by the sight of it. He hasn’t witnessed much interaction between Louise and Phil, though from the way she spoke, he’d known they must have shared a fondness. He rocks her to and fro, face glum as it rests on her shoulder.

“Yes,” Nikolai says, lower lip jutting out. “Unfortunately so. Phil and I have a big night ahead of us. We’re very excited, so we’d best get off.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. If this is Phil ‘very excited’, he’ll eat one of Phil’s skis.

“Right, well I hope you have a lovely time,” Louise says, gently prying Phil off her and giving his arms a sympathetic squeeze. He sighs, and moves to collect his bag. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

“Oh, absolutely you will,” Sir Nikolai says, putting too much emphasis on the assurance. “Can’t keep me from surprising my lovely Phil whenever I get the chance! Come on now, sweetheart, let’s get back on the plane or we’ll really be late.”

It happens so quickly Dan almost misses it, but Nikolai reaches for Phil’s hand, and Phil snatches it sharply away. In the next second, Nikolai is flitting to speak with other members of the group about the schedule for the day ahead, as if nothing happened. Together, they all make their way out of the door. 

Just before Cornelia pulls it closed, Nikolai peers around it and calls out, “So good to meet you Daniel. Thanks for looking after the world’s largest toddler.” 

Then he winks once more, as if they now share some inside joke. Just the idea of it makes Dan want to jump in the shower and scrub the thought away. 

“You too,” Dan calls, probably not sounding particularly sincere, and then Nikolai ducks out of sight, the door closes, and he is gone.

A silence ensues, as if a hurricane has just swept through the lobby, leaving the three people standing there ruffled and reeling. Eventually, Dan reorients himself, catching his swirling thoughts like flies, one at a time. Once he’s more or less gathered together, he turns and hurls himself directly at Louise, almost knocking her to the floor.

“I’ve never been more happy to see anyone in my  _life_ ,” he gushes into her coat lapels. She pats him on the back a few times, allowing the tight hug, and then pushes him off.

“Pull yourself together you big wuss,” she says, but she’s grinning. “Good to see you too. Though can’t say as much for-”

“Little Dan, how I have missed your sweet face!” Kaspar cries, then lifts Dan directly off the floor and shakes him several times. “How did you cope in the storm? Did you bolt down the tables and chairs?” Red, pulsing alarm flashes through Dan’s mind. He pictures round, white tables cartwheeling down the slopes of the mountains, barrelling into bunnies and small children on hikes. Then Kaspar barks a loud, disconcerting laugh. “Only joking, little Dan! They are already permanently fixed to the balcony. Your face is very amusing!”

“Oh,” Dan says, heart rate finally settling. “Ha ha.”

“So, shall we all have a drink and a snack?” Louise asks in a mumsy voice, at which point Dan almost shoves adoption papers into her hands.

Before he can reply however, that great, shuddering machine-noise starts up, zooming over their heads, making the chandelier in the centre of the lobby rattle. In the middle of Dan’s chest, something aches and pulls, like his ribs are attached to the plane by a fishing line, unspooling rapidly as Phil and the others glide further and further away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eleven coming next Friday at 8pm GMT


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has a mild reference to an eating disorder. Nothing graphic, and nothing more than a mention of past issues with it. But if you are easily triggered, maybe avoid this chapter.

Three hours later, Kaspar is departing after a quick check around the hotel to see if anything needs repairing -  _“Little Dan, your handyman skills are excellent! You wound up Mona’s big ugly clock, and fixed all her trinkets! I am impressed!”_  - and then loading the cable car with around twenty large bags from the outside bins, which he does once a month.

“I am in for a smelly ride!” he shouts cheerily as he squeezes into the cable car amongst the bags, and waves to Louise and Dan as if he’s a child on a merry-go-round waving to his mum and dad. “See you soon, friends! Please do tell lovely Mona I think of her constantly, and send kisses upon kisses!”

Louise leads Dan back upstairs then, sits him down in a chair in the mezzanine, and brings him a freshly baked cupcake. He blinks down at the treat once it’s placed in front of him, pleased but bewildered.

“What’s this for?” He picks up the cupcake anyway, marvelling at the swirled peak of blue frosting. His mouth waters as he peels off the paper case.

“Well, I was hoping to get a smile out of you,” Louise says, pulling a chair around to sit beside him. She rests her chin in her hand on the table, and looks at him with obvious concern. “But perhaps I’m dreaming too big.”

Dan sinks his teeth into the cupcake. It tastes like sweet relief. “Unfghh,” he says, eyes falling shut. “Sensational.”

When his eyes reopen, it’s to Louise’s pleased smile, but her worry lines peek through, betraying her. “Was it that bad?” she asks.

“Meeting Nikolai?” Dan asks, and wrinkles his nose, contemplating the question. “Meh. I’m used to dealing with snobby wankers at this point. Though he makes Phil seem like a peach.”

“No, not that,” Louise says. “Obviously he’s a Royal pain. Could you tell he doesn’t remember my name? He learns it once and makes a big show out of using it, but after that you’re less than dirt to him, though he tries not to let it show.”

“Dick,” Dan says firmly, then takes another bite of fluffy, crumbly goodness.

“But I meant the weekend, Dan,” Louise says, apparently not willing to let this drop. “I knew you could handle it, but I did worry. What with all the... friction between you and Mr Novokoric.” She pauses, eyebrow arched, perhaps to give Dan a chance to jump in, which he doesn’t, instead opting to finish off the cake. “Did something happen? Another argument?”

At her first question, Dan almost chokes, but is quickly placated by her second. He thinks about pretending that nothing whatsoever occurred, that they barely glanced at each other in three whole days, but decides quickly that it would be far less believable that things went totally smoothly.

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to exude nonchalance, then licks his fingers of crumbs. “Some minor disagreements. He called me bony.”

Best way to disguise a lie is to conceal it in truth. That’s what Dan’s always found, anyway. The admission makes Louise laugh, and mercifully she seems to relax. “Struck a nerve, did he?”

“I have a perfectly normal amount of bones, thanks very much.”

She titters again, then eyes him curiously. “Anything else? You were alone up here for three days together. I half expected to walk in on a crime scene.”

Dan can feel the traitorous blush creeping into his cheeks, and he shrugs again, trying to think of something that will appease her. Perhaps he should give her a small nugget of the real story. The shock of it might be enough all on its own to get her to ease off. 

“We, uh, went skiing,” Dan tries. “Briefly.”

She balks at once, lipsticked mouth falling wide. “You  _what_?!”

Okay, perhaps that nugget wasn’t the best one to choose. Dan winces at her obvious flare of anger. “I know it’s against the rules, but Phil’s super experienced. And anyway he practically dragged me out the door!”

“Do you even have skis?”

Dan hesitates, biting his lip. No point trying to backtrack now. “Phil lent me his new ones.”

A weighted blanket falls over the conversation then. It feels like Louise is scrutinising him, for some reason he can’t put his finger on. As if he’s accidentally revealed that he has gills beneath his shirt collar, and she’s spotted them peeking out.

“Did he now,” Louise murmurs. It doesn’t seem to be a question.

In the hopes of lifting the quilt of this weird new atmosphere, Dan decides a change of subject is in order. “Anyway, enough about me and dick-brain. How was it with Pearl?”

Despite her obvious reservations, Louise’s smile breaks through upon hearing her daughter’s name. Relieved to be off the hook for now, Dan listens avidly to Louise as she gushes about her little girl, about how she’s grown, about her predictable but adorable three-year-old interests - Frozen, My Little Pony, Peppa Pig, etc - and sits patiently smiling at photo after photo of the blonde toddler, beaming her gap teeth at the camera, ribbons decorating the wavy locks she inherited from her mother.

It starts getting dark eventually, he and Louise still talking about nothing much at all. It’s so pleasant, just sitting with her and laughing, bantering about life, sipping coffee and eating cupcakes, that Dan doesn’t even realise he’s stalling until Louise points out how long they’ve been doing just that. Reluctantly, Dan starts to extricate himself from the conversation, mind wandering to all the tasks he needs to accomplish. He hasn’t swept the balcony since the storm, and the lobby could do with a mop and tidy after all the hoards of people traipsing through it today.

“Oh, by the way,” Louise says, scooping cake crumbs off the table into her hand. “I don’t know if Mona mentioned, but as we don’t get a lot of opportunities to get into Mr Nov- I mean, Phil’s room, we usually snatch any chance we get as soon as he’s gone for any length of time.”

Dan sends Louise a puzzled look, and she chuckles.

“To change the bed and the bins and everything. He doesn’t let us do it normally. So might be an idea to go and give it a spring clean.”

“Ugh, do I have to?” Dan asks, dreading the idea of re-entering the scene of what feels like his very recent crime.

“You should go in just to have a nose around,” Louise tells him with a reticent grin. “You’ll never believe the size of his suite.”

Dan shrugs, picturing the untidy floorplan of room eight, already moving to the stairs. “The bed takes up most of it.”

He’s already up the second flight of stairs before he realises he’s probably let slip a little too much.

*

After three trips up and down the three flights of stairs, carrying dirty mugs, sheets, towels, and rubbish, Dan finally gets Phil’s room to a point where he can begin rebuilding. Phil Novokoric has the only King-sized bed in the entire hotel, so there are just two sets of bedding big enough to fit. After half an hour of searching, Dan is still unable to locate the second set, so he gives up, resigning himself to waiting until the sheets currently in the wash are clean and dry.

Knelt in Phil’s ensuite bathroom, scrubbing the glass pane of the shower, Dan is not feeling particularly warm towards the man. The bathroom isn’t  _dirty_  exactly, but it’s clear that it’s been a while since the sinks and bath have been properly scrubbed and bleached. By the time he’s done, he’s too exhausted to think about re-dressing the bed or lining the wastepaper bins. Instead, he goes down to Louise, wrung out and pissed off, to complain and beg her for snacks.

“I don’t know where you put them all,” Louise says as she hands Dan another cupcake - his third. “Phil’s right, you’re all bones.”

Dan shoots her a glare, but given that he has blue frosting smeared across his mouth, he doubts it’s particularly menacing. “He’s one to talk, he never eats anything. I practically had to force soup and pizza down his throat.”

She’s quiet for a minute, folding tea towels. “He ate soup and pizza?”

“Only after I yelled at him.”

Her mouth quirks. “What did you say?”

“Something like…” Dan tilts his head, trying to remember. The events of last night somewhat obliterated the rest of the day from his memory. “‘Starving yourself isn’t cute or impressive and I won’t be fired for your valiant attempt at martyrdom.’ Roughly.”

Louise stops folding, then leans against the counter. “And that worked?”

There’s something amiss in her tone. “Apparently. Why?”

She catches a strand of blonde curl in her fingers and twirls it. “I don’t know the extent of it, but I understand he has a tricky relationship with food. His brother, who used to be his PA, told me that once.”

Guilt lashes through Dan like he’s been whipped. “Oh. Shit, wow. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it once was, judging from what Martyn told me,” Louise says with a shrug. “He only said something to me so that I wouldn’t push him to eat, or say the wrong thing. If you ask me, it was probably a sort of rebellion on Phil’s part, to do with all that awful Royalty training he had to go through. Can’t imagine the sorts of things they put him through.” She grimaces, and Dan replays some of the conversation he had with Phil last night, about nose jobs and personality bleaching. “You know, he told me once that they made him do something called ‘kidnap situation training’,” Louise says, clearly not noticing the anvil of guilt Dan’s struggling not to be crushed under. “They stage a kidnapping when he least expects it, take him to an unknown location and he has to get out of it using self-defense and mediation. And they use  _live ammunition_  to simulate reality. I mean, obviously they’re experts in avoiding actually shooting him, but can you imagine? It must be terrifying. And he has no choice. He’s forced to do undergo these crazy exercises because he married Nikolai so fast. He probably had no idea what he was signing up for, the poor kid.”

The impossible weight of the anvil buckles Dan’s knees. He feels himself crumble under its mass, slowly, and he has to discreetly grip the lip of the worktop to stop himself from slipping to the ground.  _Twenty-one_ , Phil had said. That’s how old he was when he was swept off his feet by a charlatan promising a life of love and luxury, and consequently forced through a complete physical and personal re-design, then locked away up a mountain. Is it any wonder he’s so moody, so snippy, so sad? And along comes Dan, griping and pestering him at every turn, telling him off for things he can’t help, for things he’s been traumatised by.

“I should…” Dan mutters, pushing away from the counter, only to wobble on unsteady legs. “I should get on. Lots to do still.”

“Are you alright?” Louise asks, slipping effortlessly into concerned-mother-mode. She lifts a hand to his forehead, and he shrinks away. “You’re all pale suddenly.”

“I’m fine,” Dan tells her, managing a tight smile. He walks briskly to the door. “Just… got a load to do before, um, before Mona gets back.”

“She won’t be back today,” Louise says, frowning.

Dan shrugs, already at the kitchen door. “Still. Best to prepare. See you later.”

“He’s alright, you know Dan.” Her voice is soft, careful. It makes him pause, halfway through the door. “He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain.” 

“A dick-brain,” Dan says half-heartedly, though he still feels wretched. 

“Better than nothing,” Louise says. 

Dan doesn’t know how to reply, so he nods, swallowing something acrid and bitter, then pushes out of the kitchen. 

*

An unfamilar noise splits through the silent crackle of the night, burrowing beneath the thin skin of Dan’s light slumber, and waking him. His eyes are crusted and filmy with dried tears as he wrenches them open, and he scrubs a hand over them, sitting up. There is only one thought clear enough to articulate in the gloop of his viscous mind:  _why am I awake?_  

Blearily, he turns to the window, or the place he knows the window to be, given that it’s dark and his eyes have yet to adjust. Nothing seems out of place as far as he can tell. No ghostly movements in the shadows, or unusual shapes that might be demons lurking, ready to pounce. Of course, these things are impossible anyway, but Dan’s rational brain doesn’t like to be disturbed during the nighttime hours. He listens for a good minute or two, ears straining against the thick blanketing silence; faintly, he thinks he can make out muffled movement from downstairs.

He sighs, thinking of Louise scuffling about, trying not to make too much noise, and reaches blindly for his phone. It’s two in the morning. Given that Louise often tells Dan she would rather watch her own legs be chewed off by ravenous wolves than disturb her slumber for anything less than an emergency, he thinks he’d better go and see what’s stirred her. As he peels back the duvet and drops his feet to the carpet, trepidation begins settling around him like a cloak. The more he wakes up, the more images his paranoid brain provides of possible situations happening below: Louise, legless and bleeding, at the mercy of an actual wolf. Some sort of mountain-dwelling-specialist burglar, currently hauling the TV down the floating stairs. A poltergeist, smashing coffee cups and tugging Louise’s curls. He’s barefoot, but it’s not cold in the over-heated hotel, so he pads out of the room and begins making his way down the stairs, wishing he’d thought to grab some kind of weapon on his way.

The shadows paint the wooden walls with hunched, crouching ghouls, warping the layout of the familiar building until Dan is disoriented enough that he has to pause on the lower landing and re-evaluate where he’s headed. Eventually he makes it to the mezzanine, and the moonlight streaming through the balcony windows illuminates things a little better. Dan looks around, thinking idly that he’s likely to find Louise in the kitchen, if anywhere. He starts towards the door, and stops suddenly, heart lurching into his throat as he catches sight of a shape curled in one of the beanbag chairs, large and too bulky to be a stray blanket.

As his eyes adjust, he’s sure he can make out the form of an actual body, and has to swallow a scream of terror. Luckily, as he’s spent the past few days staring at or thinking about a certain sweep of jet black hair, the specific hue of pale skin and big, long-fingered hands, he recognises the blob in under a second. He has to blink a few times to be sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Phil?” he asks once he’s relatively certain this is not a mirage.

Eyes flick open, and that brilliant blue shines out, caught in the wash of moonlight. “Dan.” His voice is barely a croak. He moves sluggishly into a more upright position, as if his limbs are weighted, and presses his palms to his eyes. “Ugh. Di’n’t wanna wake you up.”

Ignoring the urge to unpack that statement for now, Dan decides to tackle a more pressing confusion. “What are you doing here?  _How_  are you here?”

“Plane,” Phil says vaguely, floating a hand in the air above his head, as if Dan needs a visual aid.

“You’re supposed to be in Milan,” Dan says, utterly bewildered. 

As his eyes adjust, he can see Phil is in a suit and tie, somewhat creased now, but still obviously expensive and posh. He doesn’t appear to be wearing a coat, which is concerning. Had he walked from wherever the plane landed to the hotel without one? And even then, how he got inside is a mystery. It occurs to Dan that he’s pretty sure he didn’t remember to bolt the front door, which answers that he supposes, but the rest is still completely up in the air. 

“Yeah,” Phil sighs, shoulders slumping, “couldn’t bear to be parted from you, I guess.”

Despite the typical sarcastic response, there’s something off about his words; they’re all bumping together, the consonants jostling for position. It occurs to Dan that Phil’s probably drunk, as he’s been at some fancy event, and he doubts the snobs that put those together skimp on the champagne. Further interrogations can wait until he’s sober enough to speak some sense. It’s obvious that Phil is not capable of looking after himself right now, so Dan needs to get this man into bed. He contemplates how best to do this, chewing his thumbnail.

“I stripped your bed earlier,” Dan tells him in a sigh. “Your room’s not ready for you.”

“S’fine,” Phil says, toeing off his loafers and leaning back into the beanbag. “I’ll sleep here.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a prat. Just wait here a sec while I get the bedding.”

He descends into the dark lobby, shivering from something that doesn’t feel like cold, then ducks into the tiny laundry room to retrieve the sheets he’d washed and dried earlier. He folds it all up diligently - though not very neatly - and puts it all into a basket to bring back upstairs. As he passes through the mezzanine lounge, he inclines his head as a signal for Phil to follow him up to the top floor.

Dan walks slowly on account of his weak ankle and the dark, but he can hear Phil’s plodding, unsure footsteps behind him, careless and clumsy. Dan wonders how fast the other man’s mind is spinning, and wishes he had another set of hands to help keep him steady.

“Not far now,” Dan reminds him in a low voice, because they’re approaching the floor where Louise sleeps. “One more set of stairs.”

“Thank God you’re here, I almost forgot,” Phil mutters, though his words are so slurred that the contemptuous remark loses its potency.

In a way, it’s almost soothing to know that Phil is still lucid enough to deride him. They reach the top floor eventually, Dan’s arms aching and his ankle throbbing. He’d left Phil’s door unlocked earlier, so he pushes it open now and heads straight for the bed. Phil ambles in afterwards, moving to switch on a lamp on the bedside, which offers some yellow light that glosses the moonlight pouring in through the huge windows.

Dan sets to work immediately, pulling off the pillows and duvet in order to cover the mattress with a clean sheet. Given the size of the bed, this is no easy task, and the corners spring off twice in his haste. To his surprise, Phil begins attempting to help, moving sluggishly, but managing to hold the corners in position.

They work together silently, dressing the pillows and even stuffing the duvet into its cover. By the time it’s done, Dan’s about ready to drop, but he can feel the weight of responsibility on him right now, along with that anvil of guilt Louise heaved on his back earlier. It’s not something he can just shrug off, so despite the fact his shift doesn’t technically start for a few hours, and Phil is supposedly not his problem yet, Dan finds himself going to Phil’s small kitchenette area and finding a glass. It looks a bit smeary, but otherwise fine, so he takes it into the bathroom, rinses it out and fills it, then brings it out to Phil, who is now sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forwards, face in his hands. He still doesn’t look up to giving the full explanation Dan wants to drag out of him, so it will just have to wait until tomorrow. Not that he’ll be any more forthcoming then - he certainly doesn’t owe Dan any explanations if he doesn’t want to share. 

Given that there’s no point in attempting to pry answers out of him at the moment, Dan places the glass on Phil’s bedside table and studies the man in front of him, deciding how best to approach the task of getting him into bed. Probably best to start with removing his uncomfortable outer layers, Dan decides, and reaches for Phil’s suit jacket, which he then begins shoving awkwardly down his arms. As he works the material over Phil’s biceps, Dan vaguely notes Phil’s head lifting, blue eyes squinting at him curiously. 

After a moment or two, Phil asks, “um, what are you doing?”

“As fun as it would be to watch you attempt to struggle out of your clothes in your inebriated state, it’ll be a lot quicker if I help,” Dan replies, managing to pull the garment off him.

He turns to fold the jacket carefully over a chair, then spins around to find Phil fighting a smile. Dan ignores it, reaching for Phil’s shirt buttons, some of which are already undone. He works efficiently, keeping his mind focused resolutely on the action of slipping the round discs of plastic through their respective holes, and  _not_ anything about the soft, pale skin beneath slowly revealing itself.

“Dan?”

Dan tuts, wishing he’d just shut up and be helped without argument. “What?”

“I’m not drunk,” Phil says.

Dan’s fingers still. Phil’s shirt is almost entirely open, revealing the length of Phil’s lean torso in a long, deep ‘V’. “Yes you are,” Dan says stubbornly.

Phil shakes his head. “Not even slightly.” 

“But... you were at that event,” Dan tries, though his stomach is squeezing, and he can already feel the blush creeping into his face. 

Belatedly, Dan realises then that he’s got one knee on the mattress beside Phil’s left thigh, and the other nestled between Phil’s legs, almost pushing into his crotch. He’s essentially in Phil’s lap, methodically undressing him. For some reason, this incriminating position doesn’t seem to be anything other than mildly amusing to Phil. 

“Yeah, well after about a minute of watching Nikolai schmooze a bunch of CEO’s and their wives, I knew I had to make a break for it at the first opportunity.” He shrugs; one of his hands rests absent-mindedly on Dan’s knee, like he’s not even aware of the action. “Can’t fly drunk, so I avoided the free schnapps.” 

“Fly drunk...” Dan tries to process this information, and fails. “You don’t mean-  _you_  flew the plane up here?” 

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches. “And here I thought I was running out of ways to impress you.” 

Dan stares into Phil’s eyes - they’re bloodshot and drooping, but the pupils are small, the irises bright and clear. He’s not lying, Dan realises. He’s stone cold sober. Too caught up in the embarrassment of having tried to undress and basically straddle a man who was totally capable, the information Phil is feeding him - that he apparently can fly planes, that he’s been trying to  _impress_ Dan of all things, that he’d escaped from Nikolai’s side to come back here at 2am - is enough to have Dan totally flummoxed. He attempts to leap backwards, to extricate himself from Phil, but Dan being who he is, trips and stumbles. 

Though sluggish and inalert, Phil somehow still manages to catch him before he lands on his ass. He tugs Dan sharply forwards, and he ends up falling front-ways instead, pushing Phil until he’s toppling backwards, both hands coming down to bracket Phil on the bed. 

“God, you’re insatiable tonight,” Phil jokes as Dan attempts to scramble off him, mortified. “Relax,” Phil laughs, though it sounds numb and hollow. “I’m not under any impression that you’re actually that unable to resist me.” 

“Sorry, fuck,” Dan says, flushing, having rolled off Phil smartish. “I’m barely awake right now, and I thought you were sloshed and-”

Phil throws him a tired laugh. “Not sloshed, no. Just exhausted. Can barely see straight.”

Dan’s heart is jackhammering, but one look at Phil, sprawled out on his fresh bedclothes, eyes half-shut, tells Dan that this is a lot more than exhaustion. He can joke that watching Nikolai hobnobbing with a load of posh gits is enough to send him running for the door, but if Dan had to guess, he’d say something happened at that party. Something bad enough to have Phil finding the nearest plane and pointing its nose straight back up the mountain he loathes being stranded at the top of. 

“Well yeah, I’d imagine,” Dan replies carefully. “Round trip to Milan and back in less than twelve hours?”

Phil doesn’t answer; Dan wonders if he’s fallen asleep. He dithers, shifting, and the mattress bounces Phil up and down.

“Don’t,” Phil mutters.

“Don’t what?”

A pause. Dan’s ears strain to hear the response. When it comes, it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t leave.”

To spare Phil the humiliation of explaining himself given his current state, Dan just nods to the otherwise empty room, and shuffles to the edge of the bed. He gets up to plump the pillows, then pulls back the duvet. He turns to prod Phil in the leg.

“Get in, then.”

When Phil immediately begins moving in accordance with Dan’s instruction, Dan tells himself it’s because he’s so tired that he’d do anything he was told. Once he’s beneath the covers, Phil shuffles around a bit until he’s shucked off his trousers, which he then pulls out in a magician-like reveal, and throws to the ground. Dan picks them up, and folds them across the chair with the jacket. They’re still warm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dan asks as he slides in to the other side of the bed.

“No,” Phil says half into the pillow. He sounds seconds away from unconsciousness, which is promising. Then, quietly, he says, “if you’re really gagging to know, I suggest you check the news.” 

Given that Dan himself is about five years away from getting any sleep, he reaches into his pyjama pocket for his phone and opens his news app. He doesn’t even need to use the search bar. Right there, on the front page, blares the headline:

_‘SIR NIKOLAI’S HUBBY THREATENS DIVORCE IN SHOCKING DISRUPTION AT CHARITY EVENT’_

Dan scrolls down, already alarmed. Granted, the newspaper this particular headline belongs to could probably be best described as a tabloid, but he hasn’t the patience to look for a more reputable source of information just yet. He reads quickly, eyes darting along each line like he wants to get it over with all at once.

_‘...came as a surprise to us all when Swiss bachelor Sir Nikolai Novokoric announced his marriage to Philip Lester, a Manchester-born student he’d known for less than a year. The two lovebirds married in a secret ceremony in early 2016. After a few months of being snapped canoodling at various parties and events, Sir Nikolai pulled his new man out of the spotlight, and he’s barely been seen since._

_Last night at the annual European Young Person’s LGBTQ+ charity event was the first public sighting of Sir Nikolai’s husband in some time. Evidently, due to the shockingly dramatic stunt Philip pulled during his husband's speech, this absence might be the sign of trouble in paradise between the young couple._

_“It’s bloody hypocritical!” Philip spat into the microphone once he’d pushed Sir Nikolai aside [see video below]. “He’s getting an award for being this charitable gay icon, but he’s exploiting his own sexuality.”_

_As you can see in the video, there was little chance for him to finish his impromptu rant, as he was quickly escorted off stage by security. He did however shout, as he was being pulled out of the building, that he intends to file for divorce. We’ve yet to pin down Sir Novokoric for a responding comment.’_

Beneath the wall of text is a video, taken on someone’s phone by the looks of things. Dan’s thumb hovers over the play button, heart pounding. Does he really want to see this?

“Go ahead,” Phil says from beside him, making Dan jump. He’d assumed the other man was asleep by now. “The rest of the world’ll have seen it in a few hours. Why not join them.”

Dan hesitates for less than two seconds, then locks his phone, placing it on the bedside table. “I don’t go in for that tabloid bollocks.”

There’s a moment where Dan thinks Phil might smile, but he just rolls over again, fringe falling over his face. “I was dumb,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Somebody needed to,” Dan replies sniffily, thinking of Sir Nikolai’s irritating winks. “I mean, if you’re right about the exploitation,” Dan clarifies quickly. There’s no use telling Phil that he has a personal dislike for his husband. “That should be brought to people’s attention, if it’s true.”

“Well of course he’s exploiting himself,” Phil says. “And me. And anyone who identifies as gay or bi. He’s pretending he’s the Ellen Degeneres of the Swiss Royal family, happily married to his true love, when he’s actually in the Bahamas, shagging anything that moves - male or female.”

“Well, if it’s male  _or_  female-”

“Don’t,” Phil cuts in, tartly. He sits up, pushing a hand into his hair. “Are you really gonna argue, to  _me_ , that just because he’s bi, and he’s up front about it in the media, that he still deserves to be heralded as some admirable icon for the LGBT community? Why is it that just because he fancies blokes as well as girls, everyone can look past the fact he’s married? Don’t the public give a shit about what  _I_ might feel? It’s all so creepy, the way everyone pretends he’s some Saint, looking the other way when he’s caught snogging models on beaches. He’s a sociopath if you ask me. He doesn’t fuck people based on real attraction like everyone else - for him it’s all about who can get him the most publicity. Who would look best next to him in the paparazzi photos, or in the leaked sex tape.”

Dan is only able to glean bits and pieces from Phil’s rant at a time; the slew of information is startling, as is the sheer loathing coating each sentence. One thing Dan does catch though, are those last two words. “...you and Nikolai have a sex tape?”

Phil throws him a withering look, but there’s a tinge of amusement tucked into its far corner. “Not the point, Dan.”

“Sorry.” Dan sighs, sinking back into the pillows, mind spinning as it attempts to process everything. Dan doesn’t know the other side of it, has never paid attention to the public’s fawning over Nikolai, so perhaps he’s biased, but everything Phil is saying makes a worrying amount of sense. “Seems like he’s an absolute bellend,” Dan says, succinctly summarising his own responding feelings. He can hear Phil snort with laughter, and it’s nice. “Way I see it,” Dan continues, slowly allowing his words to shape around his developing stance on the matter. “He shows up here after months of nearly no communication, expecting you to play along with his plans, go right back to being the perfect little house-husband. If you ask me, it’s his own fault. Anyone in your position would have been fuming, ready to explode at the drop of a hat.”

“Yeah, but other people would probably have exploded in private,” Phil sighs, picking at the duvet cover. “You don’t get it. I’ve been in this world for a while now. I should’ve known better than to blow my lid on a damn stage like that, in front of all the press. Now the world will be on Nik’s side, and I’ll be the trashy scumbag that Kanye’d his acceptance speech and broke up with him in front of a live audience.”

Dan is silent, contemplating this. Instinctively, he reaches out and places a hand over where he thinks Phil’s knee is. Phil stares at the hand, perplexed, then turns to look Dan in the eye.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Phil asks, eyes round. 

The bits of Dan that still reverberate with hurt from all his mean comments, and a disgust for the bourgeoise in general, tell him to say yes. Dan thinks he could say yes, if he were crueller, if he didn’t think he’d throw up after watching the glacier-blue eyes in front of him fill with tears. It’s perfectly reasonable to argue that Phil’s been an idiot since the day he put on that bloody ring. 

But it’s too late. The pieces of Dan that started, days ago, to warm to Phil, to understand him, to sympathise, now form the majority of Dan’s being. He wonders if it was the same way for Phil, back in the first weeks of knowing Nikolai, as that charming grin and laser-focus on just him began chipping away at his resolve. Dan hasn’t much experience in love, but he’s beginning to suspect that even with every scrap of common sense you have at your disposal, pretty much anyone is in danger of being a complete idiot.

“No,” Dan says truthfully. He remembers Louise’s words from earlier.  _He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain._  She’s a lot wiser than she gets credit for. “A dick-brain, sure. But you’re not stupid.”

“I feel stupid right now.”

Dan lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, searching for a bright side of this gloomy looking cloud above Phil’s head. “At least he can’t pretend that everything’s fine between you now,” Dan tries. “You announced to the whole world that you’re unhappy. Puts him in an awkward position if he tries to just brush it under the rug.”

Phil cocks his head, looking at Dan as if he’s never seen him before. “I didn’t think about that.” He turns away slowly, eyes unfocused as he settles back down into the pillows. “Maybe there’s a way out.”

“Get some sleep,” Dan advises, noting the exhaustion in Phil’s voice. “It’ll all seem better in the morning.”

“Mmm,” Phil says, eyes already closed. 

“Can’t believe you Kanye’d him,” Dan marvels, trying to picture it. He notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, and laughs softly. “And you weren’t even drunk.” 

“They should give me a medal for not chugging a bottle of Greygoose, listening to Nik talk about morality and political change like he has any clue,” Phil says, sighing heavily. 

“How’d you resist?” Dan asks affably, hoping to send Phil into dream in a lighter mood. 

“Just kept thinking...” Phil mutters, trailing off.

“Thinking what?” 

“Thinking that if I just didn’t drink... if I could hold on and hold on...” he breathes a long sigh, mouth falling slack, and whispers, “I could fly back to you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested to know, that whole Royalty training kidnap stuff is an actual thing members of the Royal family have to go through! Particularly if you're a new person marrying in. Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton both had to do it, and you can read all about it here if you like: https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/930005/Meghan-Markle-Prince-Harry-royal-wedding-SAS-training-kidnap
> 
> I found it super interesting. 
> 
> Next Chapter coming Friday at 8pm GMT as usual!


	12. Chapter 12

Dan is stirred by a muffled, consistent knocking sound. In the minute or so before he thinks to open his eyes, the knocks are a diegetic part of his dream - a result of the runaway toboggan he’s sat on hitting rocks as it races down an icy, unpredictable slope. It’s only when Phil, next to him, begins groaning in protest at the noise, that Dan realises he’s awake. He sits up groggily, the world blurred by sleep dust and the hair that’s stuck over one of his eyes. Shushing Phil’s incessant moans, he slowly shucks the thick covers off himself and pads across to the door. The knocking is not, as far as he can tell, on the door itself, which is confusing. Nevertheless, Dan pulls it open to peer into the hallway.

Stood outside Dan’s room a bit further down, her fist raised to the wooden pane, is Louise. She’s in her full chef uniform, along with the hat, which sits jaunty and cute atop her brilliant blonde locks. As she takes in the sight of Dan, the knocking ceases instantly. Her hand drops to her side.

“Dan,” she says, bewildered, and moves to stand in front of him, brow creased. “What are you doing in-” she breaks off, focus sliding to somewhere over his shoulder. “Oh dear God,” she says, eyes round and horrified.

Dan squints at her, then scrubs his eye with one fist. “Lou, what’s wrong-”

And then, in a huge tumble, the snowstorm of his own foolish, moronic ignorance smacks into him. He turns, following Louise’s gaze to the four poster at his rear, and the body stretched beneath the heaping covers. Dan’s breath catches in his lungs, near choking him, and he immediately feels heat rush into his cheeks.

“Oh, shit. Lou, it’s not what you think- I’m just-”

“Emerging bedraggled and drowsy from the bedroom of our most high-profile guest?”

Her usually bright, open features have darkened and drawn inwards. She looks both angry and disapproving at once - a motherly fury that makes Dan want to hang his head in shame. Instead, he tries hard to hold his ground. He’s not done anything wrong, not really. If she just sees that, she’ll understand, and this whole misunderstanding can be diffused before-

“What the bloody fuck are you playing at, you nitwit?” Louise hisses, then raises a palm when he tries to respond. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I came to get you because there are guests downstairs. Do you remember what those are?”

Limply, Dan nods, then opens his mouth to speak again. “Really, I can explain-”

“And you will,” Louise cuts in. “Later. Right now, you need to do your job.”

She turns on her heel, curls bouncing, and stalks off before Dan can argue with her. Cheeks aflame, Dan darts back into Phil’s room and jogs to get his phone. It’s almost ten in the morning - way beyond the start of his shift. Those damn blackout curtains. He’s already halfway to the door when Phil sits up, irritable and confused in the midst of the commotion. He says Dan’s name, more than once.

Dan doesn’t bother to stop and explain - it’s all Phil’s fault that Louise had discovered their little bed-share in the first place. He’s the one who keeps begging Dan to sleep beside him. It only occurs to Dan as he’s back in his room hastily pulling on work clothes that he hadn’t needed any music to drift off again last night. As soon as he was sure Phil was settled, Dan had breathed a sigh of relief, switched off the light and zonked out in seconds.

Irrelevant though, Dan tells himself as he hurtles downstairs. Sure enough, a couple are waiting at the front desk, their faces pinched because they’ve likely had to wait ages, their bags at their feet, their coats dusted with snow.

“Hello, welcome!” Dan practically shrieks at them, panting from all the stairs he’s had to run down. “So sorry for the delay. Thank you for waiting. It’s the Huangs, isn’t it? Let me take your bags up to your room. If you’d like to wait in our mezzanine lounge, I’ll have our chef make you some refreshments.”

*

An hour later, once the Huangs have been placated by copious ass-kissing and a lot of ‘on-the-house’ coffees, Dan is clearing their table. He plans on sliding the dirty cups and plates through the serving hatch and sneaking off before Louise can catch hold of him, but he’s just quietly placing everything down when she says, back turned, “don’t even think about it. Get in here.”

Swallowing thickly, Dan creeps round to the kitchen door, and slips through. He waits there, just inside, ready to spring back out again if she starts throwing cookware. For a while, she doesn’t speak, just stands over the hob sizzling something delicious-smelling in a frying pan.

“Lou, what you saw this morning-”

“It wasn’t what it looked like?” She snatches the words from his mouth before they form. Dan stays silent as she switches the hob off, then turns, mouth set in a hard line. “Well it better bloody not have been, because if it were, you’d be a much bigger dope than I’d pegged you for.”

Dan nods, guiltily. “I know it looks bad-”

“Dan!” Louise cries, her voice both shrill and hushed at once for the sake of the Huangs, who could appear at any moment. “I know the man’s sex on skis, but he’s  _married_. To a man that could probably have you discreetly killed without lifting a finger!”

“Nothing happened!” Dan protests, though his excuse feels weak, despite it being true.

Louise gives him a withering look. “I knew something was off, the way you avoided talking about what happened over the weekend. But I thought you had a better head on your shoulders than this.”

“I didn’t sleep with him!” Dan feels on the verge of pulling his hair out. In the silence that follows his exclamation, he considers his phrasing. “Well, I mean, I guess I  _did_  technically, but we didn’t, like,  _do_  anything.”

The flush that’s filling his cheeks is spreading, blooming in rosy patches all over his neck and chest. He can feel the blossoms, like angry flowers, and imagines he must look like a fevered flu patient. Nevertheless, he forces himself to meet Louise’s eye; she has to know the truth. He can’t have her opinion of him smeared so awfully - she’s the only person in this place that actually seems to genuinely like him.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that,” Louise says. To her credit, she seems to want to believe it. 

Dan nods and lets their eyes meet, trying not to incriminate himself by replaying his and Phil’s weird little staring match the other night whilst Phil had wanked himself off.

“Nothing happened.” Dan’s assurance seems to relax her, if only a little. “I won’t lie, things got… intense. Being alone up here… it prompted some hyped-up discussions. And…” Dan hesitates, trying to gauge Louise’s reaction before he admits the full extent. “...he kissed me. But that’s it, I swear.”

Louise blows a long puff of air out of her cheeks. “Jesus. He  _kissed_  you?”

Dan chews his lip, wondering if he’s misremembering. It seems so long ago now, and blurred by champagne fuzz. But if he just casts himself back to that surreal, unexpected moment, he can  _taste_  Phil on his tongue, sharp and tart, like it seeped into Dan’s cells. 

He nods at Louise, eyes skidding to the floor. “He was drunk.”

Hey eyebrows raise towards the ceiling, and she shakes her head, though she looks less angry now. “That explains where that bottle of champagne went, I guess.”

Dan sighs, carding fingers through his messy hair. “I don’t know what happened this weekend. Most of the time we can barely stand each other-”

“Oh, don’t be daft,” Louis scoffs, turning back to her frying pan. “I could smell the pheromones firing from both of you the second you laid eyes on each other.”

Dan frowns in quiet disagreement, but doesn’t dare voice it. “I think he’s lonely.” 

“Well of course he’s lonely, Dan,” she says, snorting, “but that doesn’t mean you can just crawl into bed beside him.”

Frustration lances through Dan, hearing the tickle of judgement in Louise’s voice. “I’m not about to attempt some great husband-stealing magic act. He’s a bloody pain in my ass. I just -  _occasionally_  - feel kind of sorry for him. Last night, for example-”

“Speaking of,” Louise interrupts, jabbing a spatula in his direction. “I thought he left yesterday with Nikolai?”

Dan thinks of the news article he’d skimmed over last night, the words  _‘dramatic stunt’_  and  _‘trouble in paradise’_  and  _‘divorce’_  lurching from the screen. Dan shrugs, not meeting her eye. She'll find out about all that soon enough, just like the rest of the goddamned world. But for now, Dan can give Phil a few minutes more. 

“Guess he cut the trip short,” Dan says, “I heard him come back early this morning, so I made up his bed.”

“And fell asleep in it,” Louis says wryly, making Dan wince. She sighs at his expression, then shoves him lightly in the shoulder. “Oh, don’t make that kicked puppy face. I’ll stop going on about it. But my God Dan, have some bloody sense. Phil’s had plenty of experience being the media’s plaything, but if anything like this were to get out I truly don’t know how you’d hack it. They’d tear you to shreds, Princess Di-style.”

Dan nods, grimacing. “On that cheery note, I’m gonna go sweep outside.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

Dan hesitates, wondering how he can excuse himself without admitting he’s actually going to look for Phil. “Yeah, well… can’t hurt to be thorough.”

Louise raises an eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t object, waving him away with her manicured hand as she turns and switches the hob back on. He doubts he’s fooled her, but Dan will take the opportunity to scarper. He feels jellified, as if Louise’s scalding had wrung him out, and now his bones are little more than bendable straws.

It takes Dan almost twenty minutes to locate Phil; he’s not in his room, or in the lounge, not on the balcony or in the hot tub or sauna. Both sets of skis are neatly lined up in the lobby, so he can’t be out on the slopes. It’s only as Dan is rounding the corner that he finally bumps into the man, shiny and damp in his gym clothes, and slightly out of breath.

“Want to watch where you’re going, maybe?” Phil asks despite the fact his eyes are glued to the phone in his hand.

Though momentarily flummoxed, Dan pulls it together quickly enough to grab Phil by the arm before he can walk out of sight. He yanks Phil round to face him, which sours his expression even further.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Despite his deep frown, Dan can immediately appreciate that Phil looks damn good all sweaty and flushed like this. He’s clearly been doing some serious strenuous activity; Dan can practically hear the pound of his heart beneath his clinging grey t-shirt. And then it’s ruined as Phil wrenches his arm out of Dan’s grasp.

“Well done for finding me in this tiny building,” is his snotty reply.

Dan has no idea what he’s done to deserve the sudden attitude, but he doesn’t have time to ask. Ignoring Phil’s pissy mood for now, he decides to just launch in. “I just got an absolute bollocking from Louise. She caught me coming out of your room this morning.”

Dan waits for the resulting horrified exclamation, but all he receives is a blank, bored stare. “So?” Phil asks, impatiently. His eyes drift back to his phone, and he taps something into it, frowning harder.

“ _So_ , she’s under the impression that you and I are… are…” Dan flounders, pinkening.

Phil’s head raises to look at him, and one of his dark eyebrows peaks. “And did you tell her we’re not?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The  _problem_ , Dan wants to say, is that he has no idea whether he just lied to Louise. Whatever is happening between he and Phil is many things - bizarre, confusing, unpredictable - but it’s a stretch to call it totally innocent. It’s gotten to a point now where Dan legitimately has no idea how any conversation with Phil will end up. He’s just as convinced, when engaging Phil in chat, that he’ll end up with a black eye than he will being randomly kissed again. Just a few days ago, he’d have laughed in the face of anyone that told him he’d know what Phil’s mouth tastes like by now, that he’d be starting to grow used to having the weight of his body as a replacement comfort for the music that used to lull him to sleep. Who’d have thought that by now Dan would have seen Phil just woken up, and just out of the shower, and so exhausted and vulnerable it made him look almost ...sweet.

Dan doesn’t think they’ve done anything too awful together, really, but at this point he has no idea whether that will change. There’s no point lying to himself anymore that he doesn’t find Phil attractive - even has a crush on him, truthfully. It’s useless to pretend otherwise, when he thinks of Phil near-constantly, even if those thoughts are often along the lines of  _‘ugh, I wish he’d just shut up so I can look at him without hearing his stupid voice’_.

But how can Dan possibly explain any of this to Phil? He has little to no idea what Phil thinks of his and Dan’s peculiar relationship, and doesn’t really feel he can ask without sounding pathetic. Sure, Phil’s admitted he finds Dan attractive too - now and again, when the stars align - but that doesn’t mean Phil actually  _likes_  him, let alone has any real feelings for him.

“Look, I don’t have time to deal with your little panic attack right now,” Phil snaps, cross and impatient. “If you want to get Louise off your back, why don’t you just tell her that the chances of you and I copulating are about as slim as you growing a pair of balls? I’m fucking married, how many times do I need to remind everyone?”

He storms off before Dan can react, which is probably a good thing, as the only thing Dan can think to do is kick the nearest object very hard. He does this anyway, even as Phil retreats, and succeeds only in forcing a shriek of pain out of his throat as his ankle angrily throbs after being whacked into a table leg.

“Dick-brain!” Dan shouts after him, and without turning around, Phil holds up one long, pale middle finger.

*

Stupid fucking Phil with his unpredictable mood swings. He’s like a toddler, throwing tantrums left and right, acting on pure impulse, no filter on his stupid, fickle tongue. Dan scrubs the table harder, working on removing a ketchup stain that just won’t lift. It’s sticky and stubborn, just like the pretentious wanker up in room eight.

“Excuse me?” someone calls from behind him. Though reluctant to stop scrubbing, Dan straightens and turns to find Ms Huang watching him nervously from the neighbouring table, her plate of dinner abandoned in front of her. “Are you alright?”

Dan forces the tension out of his shoulders, then drags a smile from the depths of his soul - judging from Ms Huang’s alarmed reaction, the smile isn’t particularly reassuring. Nevertheless, he says, “yes, fine. Just having a Lady Macbeth moment.”

She directs a blank, confused stare towards her husband, across the table.

“Out damned spot!” Dan cries theatrically, then laughs, intending to convey a lighthearted attitude. The laugh comes out a little more manic than he intended, so he decides quickly excusing himself is the best option.

Ms and Mr Huang look mildly relieved as Dan scurries from the mezzanine into the kitchen. Door closed behind him, Dan leans against the wall, tips his head back and sighs in frustration. Phil Novokoric is driving him  _nuts_. Louise shoots him a harried look through a huge cloud of steam rising from the pots on the stove.

“Oh good,” she calls over the sound of water boiling and something fragrant sizzling. “You’re here.” She reaches into the steam at her left and produces a plate of food, which she thrusts through the cloud towards him. “Take this up to Phil, would you? I’ve got my hands full here.”

“There’s only two guests, how much food are you cooking?” Dan complains, though he takes the plate from her with a sinking heart.

“And you, and me, and his Lordship upstairs, all needing three meals a day plus snacks on demand,” she replies tersely, and shoots him a look; he ducks his head guiltily. He really mustn’t stoop to Phil’s level by taking his frustrations out on someone undeserving. Louise is the backbone of this place and it’s all due to her incredible work ethic; besides, Dan had methodically eaten everything in the kitchen over the weekend, including all the pre-prepared meals Louise had left in the freezer to tide he and Phil over.

“Sorry,” Dan mutters, turning to leave. “Back in a min, then.”

*

Dan raps his knuckles on Phil’s door twice, then lets himself in without waiting for a response. The way he sees it, if Phil’s going to guilt him into staying in this room whenever he feels a bit lonely or whatever, Dan should be able to come and go as he pleases. Perhaps it’s not the most logical argument, but then Dan hasn’t got much patience for logic right now.

“I’ve brought you some food,” Dan announces, marching straight across the floor. He doesn’t spare Phil a glance, though he notices him sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over his phone.

He looks up when Dan storms by. “Come in, why don’t you?”

“Never bothered you before,” Dan snaps quickly, all but slamming the plate down onto Phil’s coffee table. “I wouldn’t expect you to touch that for me, but maybe take into consideration that Louise slaved over your dinner before you let it go cold.”

Dan straightens up, chin out, and looks Phil in the eye. He’s dressed unusually casual, in light grey jogging bottoms and a billowy, thin white t-shirt. The t-shirt has a low, wide neckline, exposing a frankly unnecessary amount of chest area. For reasons Dan would rather not admit to, it’s a tad difficult to lift his eyes to meet Phil’s, but when he manages it, the prat is giving him a withering responding stare, as if  _Dan_ ’s the one throwing an unnecessary tantrum. 

“What is it?” Phil asks, not quite wrinkling his nose, but close enough to make Dan scowl. 

Dan shrugs, glancing at the plate he’d put down. “Looks like spaghetti. Is that good enough for your Highness?”

“I’m busy,” Phil says; his phone pings, and he turns his glare towards the screen. “Leave it there, I’ll have it later.” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, exchanging loving poetry with your dear husband?”

He’s not serious, obviously, but the phone pings again, and the awkward way Phil angles it away from Dan, like he’s ashamed, is enough of a tell. Dan’s shoulders sink as the realisation falls onto his shoulders.

“Oh my God.” Dan snorts loudly, shaking his head. “It is Nikolai texting you, isn’t it? Is that why you’re in such a mood?”

“Would you piss off? This is none of your business.”

“That’s not how you made it seem last night,” Dan snaps back, too fired up to let the jibe go this time. 

Phil lifts his eyes from the screen long enough to shoot Dan a glare. “You don’t  _understand_. The way I behaved at the charity event was stupid and rash. You shouldn’t have encouraged me to think anything less.”

“Oh, of  _course_  you find a way to blame me,” Dan cries, throwing his hands up into the air. “I am  _done_  offering you any sympathy, jeez. Hope the two of you are very happy in your loveless marriage, you self-absorbed, immature prick.”

Phil springs to his feet, a light flush lining his cheekbones. “Don’t talk to me like that. You have no right to judge me.”

“Because I don’t strut around in designer suits given to me by a husband who’d sooner buy me off than spend two minutes in my company?”

Phil’s fist, the one not holding the phone, clenches at his side. “You don’t know him. He might not show it in the best way, but he cares about me.”

“If you believe that you’re a lost cause,” Dan says, scoffing. The frustration, born of every one of these tiffs they’ve had since that first meeting, is bubbling beneath his skin, hissing steam. The kettle has boiled, and it’s screeching in Dan’s ears, raising his body temperature. “Let me guess,” Dan mocks, teeth gritted, “he’s telling you he’s  _sorry_ , that things will  _change_  and he’ll treat you better. For God’s sake Phil, watch, like, one episode of  _Gossip Girl_  and you’d know it in a second - he’s friggin’ playing you!”

Phil’s shaking his head; Dan can almost see his own  words bounce off his skin, uselessly flopping to the floor. “You don’t know him,” he says again, like the broken record he’s become. “You’ve met him once! I’ve been married to him for  _three years_. If he says he’s sorry, I believe him.”

“Of course you do, because to actually follow through with dumping him would require some actual courage!”

This time it’s Phil that snorts with derisive laughter. “Oh that’s rich, you’re insinuating  _I’m_  the coward between us-”

“Just because you fly planes and hurl yourself down mountains doesn’t make you brave,” Dan cuts in, truly furious now. He can feel the venom of his own rage tingling in his fingertips, making them tremble. “You clearly don’t have the guts to do what you actually want, so-”

_Ping!_

Two sets of eyes fall to the phone, still clutched tightly in Phil’s hand. He brings it up to his face, the deep frown lines smoothing and vanishing as he at once forgets Dan, forgets everything but whatever stupid, manipulative words are etched onto that screen. Blinded by anger, Dan doesn’t think, he just lunges forwards and snatches the phone from Phil, tucking it quickly behind his back.

The look Phil gives him is murderous. “Give it back!”

“Not until you listen to sense,” Dan replies, but even though he was so sure of himself moments ago, he can feel the conviction seeping out of him the longer he’s pinned by that cold, metallic glare. Phil starts towards him, his loose t-shirt flapping as he moves, exposing collarbones and chest hair and the valley between his pectoral muscles. Dan backs up, feet stumbling over nothing as he desperately tries to figure out his next move. “Wait, hold on, let’s just talk about it-”

“Dan, that phone cost more than three months of your salary,” Phil snaps, hand outstretched in a demand. “Hand it over, now, and I won’t get your fired for attempted theft.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Oh, right, yeah. And when I’m fired, who exactly are you gonna insult, or injure, or drunkenly try it on with?”

Phil’s lips purse, nostrils flaring, and then he lunges for Dan, hands slicing through the air for the phone, which Dan manages to snatch out of his reach, keeping it tucked behind his back. It pings again, nearly making Dan drop it, but he holds tight, backing right up until he’s against a wall. Shit. There’s very few places he can go from here. Phil seems to know this as well, judging by the triumphant look in his eye as he moves closer, cornering Dan like he’s prey.

“Phil, listen, you’re not this weak!” Dan can feel the futility of his argument slowly welling up around them, like he’s treading water, and Phil’s a grinning shark. “Nikolai’s making you fucking miserable and you know it. Whatever he’s telling you, it’s about as real as the vow of monogamy he took when you married him!”

Clearly not listening, Phil gets right up in Dan’s face, still fuming, and digs a hand round where Dan’s got the phone pressed between his back and the wall. He’s holding tight, not letting Phil get at it easily, trying to think of some way to slap him out of it before he can.

“I will not chuck away my entire life based on the word of some hotel worker running away from his problems,” Phil snarls, but Dan is too hardened by now to allow the cruel words to get to him.

“Nice try,” Dan spits back; Phil’s chest is almost pressed against him now, and he’s still struggling to pry the phone out. He’s so close that Dan can see each of his individual, darkened eyebrow hairs, can see the flecks of iridescent silver in his irises, behind the disc of his contact lens. “You’re not gonna scare me off with your acid tongue this time.”

Still, there’s the teensy problem of what the fuck he can do to get through to Phil, as time is rapidly against him here. He bites his lip, trying not to let the warmth of Phil’s body against him be too much of a distraction, or the tickle of his breath, or the movement of his arms as they work their way between- 

Then, like a flare gun shot into the night sky, an idea pierces the dark fog of Dan’s mind. There’s no time to debate it with himself, not with Phil’s scrabbling fingers easing his own off the phone behind him a little more with each passing second. So, Dan shuts his eyes tight, as a sort of defence against the very likely scenario of getting punched, and slams his lips into Phil’s.

It sort of works, in the sense that Phil is stunned enough to stop trying to wrestle the phone off him. Dan will take the victory. He pulls back, heart immediately working into overdrive as that delicious, faintly familiar crisp apple taste creeps through the seam of his lips, and spreads over his tongue. Dan shivers, body growing warm as the blood pumps through him, his nerves standing to attention; damn, he had  _definitely_  underestimated how much he’s been wanting to do that. He hopes Phil doesn’t notice, or it will seriously undermine his position of power. Dan tries to hold Phil’s gaze steadily, but he’s breathing hard, almost shaking with how hard he’s having to work to stop himself leaning in and doing that again.

Phil stares back at him, confounded and affronted, but not moving an inch. “What are you doing,” he snarls, but his voice is a whisper.

“Reminding you.” Dan takes a deep breath, then pulls out the phone and chucks it way across the floor, praying silently that Phil doesn’t dart after it. Phil follows the arc of the device with his eyes as it flies through the air, but mercifully remains rooted to the spot, right in front of Dan. Slowly, he turns back, refocusing on Dan in front of him. As their eyes lock, Dan wants to shout in triumph, but he doesn’t. “Reminding you,” Dan says again, slower, “that you don’t want him.”

As soon as the words are out, it’s like a pane of glass that’s been lodged between them explodes, smashing into shards that land around them as Phil shoves him backwards, pressing him against the wall. In the next minute, Dan’s body is alight with relief and scratching, surging want as Phil’s mouth pushes into his, chasing the kiss like he's trying to catch it between their mouths. He’s rough, and lacks any sort of finesse, as if he’s lost control of his own body, like he’s let some primal instinct take over.

His hands are on Dan’s waist, fingers digging into his flesh as he kisses and kisses, and Dan just opens up and lets him. He reaches up, slinging his arms around Phil’s neck, pushing hands over and over into the shock of Phil’s black hair, wanting to mess it up out of its usual perfect style. Suddenly, Phil pulls away, hands coming to fiddle with Dan’s shirt collar, ripping buttons from their holes.

“You,” he says, low and urgent, before leaning in to mouth against the exposed skin at Dan’s collarbone, “are  _so_  annoying.”

It’s perhaps not the most endearing thing to hear given the turn of events, but Dan’s so used to Phil insulting him at this point that he barely thinks anything of it. Besides, what with the pulses of electric pleasure brought about by each touch of Phil’s wet, sweeping tongue against his skin, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything beyond. He feels teeth graze his skin, then bite down and suck, and Dan weakens so instantaneously that he nearly buckles and falls. Luckily, Phil has him pressed so tightly against the wall that he couldn’t move if he wanted to.

“What is it about you?” Phil is muttering, already opening Dan’s placket wider, pulling at the lapels until they fall limply at his waist, exposing his entire torso. He looks, appreciatively, then leans to whisper, hot and breathy against Dan’s ear: “I’m a mess around you. I can’t think about anything except...” he bites down on Dan’s ear, making him twitch. “...all the many,  _many_  things I want to do to you.” 

Embarrassingly, a small, quiet whimper leaks out of Dan’s throat, just as a bolt of arousal slices through him. He’s still got one arm loosely draped over Phil’s shoulder, winding around his neck. The other is fisted in Phil’s baggy t-shirt; he’s trying to summon the courage to tug it off.

Apart from a few secret fumbles with some friends in locker rooms and on school trips, Dan’s never been with a man sexually. Those hushed, frantic exchanges under covers with no eye contact were not the same as this. Phil is a man, all toned, athletic muscle and the scratch of stubble he hasn’t shaved off today. His voice is low enough to burrow into Dan’s most decadent dreams, and as he speaks, quiet and fervent in Dan’s ear, telling him things that he’s never been told, it’s enough to hypnotise him.

Dan hasn’t been able to speak since Phil kissed him, hasn’t known how, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind he finds a response, which he forces out now: “W-what do you want?”

In answer, Phil pushes his hips into Dan’s, allowing him to feel the jut of his erection beneath the material of his tracksuit bottoms. “You,” he whispers, face buried in Dan’s neck. “God help me, I’ve tried not to. But Dan. I want you so much.”

The words burn as they sink into Dan’s skin, misted in the warm, wet breath condensing on his throat. Shaking with the heady, indecent thoughts swarming his mind, Dan lets go of Phil’s shirt and finds his hand, then guides it down until it’s pressed against his own hardness. Even the stiff material of his jeans isn’t enough to disguise how wild Phil is making him; Phil draws back to stare into Dan’s eyes, pupils dilating as he pushes his palm against Dan’s cock, and watches the responding gasp fall from Dan’s lips.

“You can have me,” Dan says, garbled because it sounds pathetic to his own ears; even so, he has to say it, has to let Phil know that without the various mitigating circumstances of inexperience and shit-head husbands, he’d happily have thrown himself at Phil long ago.

Phil lets out a broken sort of noise. Dan imagines a white flag going up, Phil’s shirt perhaps, tied to a stick and being waved in the air in surrender. He kisses Dan again, explorative and desperate, pushing his tongue into Dan’s mouth like he wants to claim it. Between the press of their bodies, his fingers play with the button on Dan’s jeans, like he’s toying with whether to undo them. Dan kisses back, trying to give as much as Phil is, trying to convey through the twist of their tongues how positively he feels about Phil to giving in to his carnal desires. 

“Touch me,” he whispers, desperate, and Phil’s breath hitches, stutters, falls from his lips. “Please.”

The plea, embarrassing though it should have felt, is the thing that seems to knock down the last of Phil’s inhibitions, so Dan doesn’t have time to feel anything other than relief. Phil’s fingers flick open the button of his jeans in a deft, practiced movement, then draw the zipper down. He moves his mouth to graze soft kisses along Dan’s jaw, then down his neck as he pushes his hand into the space between Dan’s jeans and his underwear.

Even through the elasticated cotton of his boxer briefs, the feel of Phil’s strong, large fingers is indescribable. Dan’s head tips backwards, until the back of his skull connects with the wall. Phil’s mouth is sucking at the base of his throat, his fingers stroking carefully over the outline of Dan’s hard cock. He pulls back, looking at Dan with hooded, glossed eyes.

“Bed,” is all he says, and Dan nods in hearty agreement.

He tries not to protest as Phil’s hand removes itself from his jeans; as Phil takes his wrist and pulls him towards the four poster, Dan focuses solely on not falling to the floor in a jellified heap. Phil climbs straight onto the elevated mattress, then tugs Dan straight after him, pulling him close until he’s falling into Phil’s lap. Dan’s more than happy to let Phil take the reins here; sure, he’s dreamt about this - too often in fact - but given that he’s out of his depth being with a man this way, he has no issue with Phil arranging Dan however he chooses.

Sat atop Phil’s thighs, allowing Phil’s tongue to do devilish things to his own as hands work the shirt off his shoulders, Dan does notice a tiny, distant voice of dubious conscience in the back of his mind, questioning the morality of this, but it’s surprisingly easy to drown it out. There has not been a single moment, in all the time he’s known Phil, that Dan had ever suspected there was real, true love, or even happiness, between he and Nikolai. If there had been any doubt that their marriage was no more than a showmance founded on deception, Dan would definitely have had more restraint.

...Almost definitely.

Phil’s hands are back in his jeans now, palming over his erection so insistently that Dan can hardly hold himself together enough to kiss Phil back. He breathes in stutters, clutching a fistful of Phil’s hair. After a minute or so, Phil’s nimble fingers find the waistband of Dan’s underwear; he keeps his eyes locked on Dan’s as he pushes inside them, a clear message of ‘tell me to stop’ in his expression that Dan doesn’t pay a lick of attention to. Instead, he bucks forwards into Phil’s touch, urging him on.

Gently, but hurriedly, Phil works Dan’s erection out of its material trappings, until he can wrap a whole fist around it. Dan’s already slick with the physical evidence of his own arousal - this along with the warm, tight lock of Phil’s fingers spill Dan’s choked little moans out in waves. His head bows forwards, until his forehead rests against Phil’s shoulder. Phil’s hand moves surely, firmly, pulling Dan’s foreskin up over the head of his cock, then circling a thumb in the slit. His movements are precise, sure, like he’s thought about them over and over, like he’s known for days just how he’d touch Dan if he could. The idea makes Dan shudder, hard. With his other hand, Phil tilts Dan’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Look at me,” he says, urgently.

It’s all quick, and messy, Phil’s hand pumping fast, but in ways that have Dan wrecked in under a minute. He’s sure he’s flushed angry reds and pinks from his cheeks to his chest, but Phil is staring at him like he’s a statue carved from marble. Dan shifts, squirming on his lap, and Phil moans, reminding Dan of the chance of reciprocation. Like a match has been lit beneath him, Dan dives for the waistband of Phil’s joggers, pulling the knot of the strings tying them tight.

Phil looks pained, like he's battling a voice telling him to stop Dan, but he doesn’t. He leans back to allow him room to burrow his hand beneath the material. It’s been years since Dan has touched another man’s penis - not since before Beth - but the second his fingers wrap around the long, impossibly hard length of Phil’s, he knows it’s all been in anticipation of this moment. He bites his lip, knowing before he’s even seen it that Phil’s as intimidating, as gorgeous, here as he is in every other respect. He pulls Phil’s cock free, staring down at the flushed tip, the long, slightly curved length of it, and feels his own cock twitch in Phil’s hand.

Evidently, Phil feels it too, because he sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering, then flattens a hand on Dan’s lower back and pulls him even closer, until their erections brush, until Phil is able to wrap one large hand around both of them. And that’s when Dan is no longer able to function. This is something he’s never done - never even thought of doing; the sensation is unworldly - the hot, slick hardness of Phil’s cock, sliding against his own, encased in the steady, unfaltering pump of Phil’s tight fist. Dan moans, finding Phil’s lips and kissing him soundly, nipping and biting at them as his arousal winds tighter, as Phil’s other hand slips down to squeeze his ass, pulling him closer in.

Dan’s hands brush Phil’s shoulders, then rake down the valleyed trunks of his arms. “Don’t stop, God, don’t stop,” he begs, not that Phil seems to have any intention of that. “I’m so close.”

“Dan,” Phil murmurs against his lips, sounding awed. “Come.”

Like the word is a trigger, Dan obeys at once, slipping through the volcanic soil he’s balanced on, and down through the scorching earth into the reservoir of magma beneath. He drowns in the bliss there, letting the hot, viscous liquid consume him, then pour out of his pulsing cock as he grips Phil’s arms like they’re aphanitic rocks. Through a haze of ecstasy, Dan reaches down and bats Phil’s hand away, takes hold of him through the slippery mess of his own climax and begins moving a fast, limp fist over him. Phil groans, biting down on Dan’s lower lip, so hard Dan thinks he could pierce right through, his thick arms wrapping themselves around Dan’s waist. Dan doesn’t stop, though his bicep and shoulder quickly start to ache, and he feels the boneless sensation of post-orgasm loosening his muscles. It takes under thirty seconds to pull Phil into his own climax; he kisses Dan through it, moaning and shuddering as his come coats Dan’s hand.

When he pulls away, lips red from the kissing, eyes bright and glazed, he looks like he’s stumbling off a battlefield. Gently, he pushes Dan off his lap, then lays down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. After a moment, he finds Dan’s hand, and pulls him down too, so they’re lying side by side.

“Probably should’ve seen that coming,” Phil says after a moment. His voice is tired and heavy, like it’s been pulled through a washing mangle.

Dan doesn’t say anything, he just nods slowly. He wonders if how Phil is feeling right now has any correlation with Dan’s current clusterfuck of emotion. Laid here beside Phil, the backs of their hands touching, sated and unfurled by the intensity of everything that just passed between them, he feels oddly calm. In the eye of the storm. But he knows it won’t last; there’s a whole blizzard beyond this bed, where he’ll have to face the cacophony of confusion, guilt and concern that this one reckless buckle of their willpower has stirred up.

“We shouldn’t do this again,” Phil says, though the lack of conviction in his tone almost makes Dan want to laugh.

“Definitely not,” Dan replies, equally unconvincing. “Shit,” Dan says as reality creeps closer, inching towards his body like an incoming tide. “I’m supposed to be working. Only came up to deliver your food. Louise must be wondering where I am.”

Phil turns his head then, and Dan turns his so they’re looking into each other’s eyes. Dan can feel the blush forming on his cheeks; even though only moments ago they stripped each other back to their most vulnerable forms, he feels suddenly exposed, like Phil’s seeing him naked just now for the first time.

“Before you go, and we get on with... y’know, pretending this never happened,” Phil says softly, eyes falling to Dan’s mouth in a way that Dan just knows is gonna screw him over. “Can I... I mean, could I, maybe... kiss you a bit longer?”

So that he doesn’t appear too eager, Dan pretends to think about this for a while before he nods and leans over, closing the distance between their mouths. He doesn’t manage to get back downstairs for some time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> planes and that

Later, when Dan’s finished every task he can remember needs doing before he’s a free man, he heads for the stairs, heart in his throat. Only a couple of hours have passed since he left Phil on a bed half-stripped by their own sordid activities, but already it seems like a lifetime. When he emerges on the top floor, Phil’s door is ajar, leaking thin light through the crack. Dan hesitates, as he always does, then opens the door to his own room. He’s in there for less than five minutes - just long enough to change out of his work clothes into pyjamas, brush his teeth and plug his phone in to charge. That done, he slips out of the door, and creeps along the hallway into Phil’s room.

The weak light is coming from the bedside lamp at Phil’s side, and there are no clear sounds. Dan creeps towards the bed, trying to keep his footsteps light and airy, lest he wake Phil up and induce a bout of wrath. In the wash of light that seeps over the bed, a shape beneath the covers is just about visible, still. Dan wonders if he should just leave again, given that Phil is dead to the world, but from the corners of the room, Phil’s small, desperate plea for him to stay last night echoes softly around him, and he is spurred on. He lifts the covers on the other side of the bed and slides in, rigid and careful, trying not to jostle him. Phil’s mattress is heavenly soft against Dan’s weary, aching muscles after a long, strenuous day. He pulls the weighty quilt over his body, letting it  settle atop him.

Despite his best efforts, something makes Phil stir, and Dan winces, fully expecting to be told off for disturbing him. Instead, Phil just rolls to face him, his sharp features softened by the lack of light, and says nothing.

“Is it okay, me being here?” Dan asks.

A twitch, in the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Why’d you think I left the door open, you idiot?”

Dan smiles, a warm glow pulsating in the vicinity of his abdomen. “Shut up.”

For a moment, it seems like Phil might lean over, across the ocean of bed-space that separates them, and kiss him again, as he had earlier. His eyes even track down to Dan’s mouth, like he’s remembering how well their lips fit together. But then he rolls away, onto his back, and breathes a deep sigh.

When he next speaks, his voice is quiet enough that the pricked ears of the silent shadow figures can’t eavesdrop. “So do I need to apologise for being a dick earlier, or was the orgasm enough?”

Dan splutters, blindsided by the question. He ignores Phil’s chuckle, likely at his expense, and tries to will the flush away from his cheeks. He’s like a bloody animé schoolgirl speaking to her Senpai these days. He’s sure he never used to blush this often. 

Eventually, he pulls himself together enough to reply. “Quite like hearing you apologise actually. It’s a good memory to hold on to when the urge to slap you gets too strong.”

Phil is smiling wide, Dan can see it, even through the dark. His eyes are closed, but his face lacks the droop of tiredness; he’s not falling asleep yet. “I don’t tend to say sorry to people much, you know.”

“No? Gosh, I’d never have guessed.”

One of Phil’s eyes opens to peer at him. “I’m sorry for behaving like a twat. And for implying that you’re unappealing to me sexually.” Dan’s cheeks burn; it’s ridiculous to be embarrassed about it, but he can’t help becoming flustered by Phil's ability to speak so casually about such things. Phil shrugs, eye falling shut again. “As you may have noticed, that was a lie.”

Dan swallows, trying not to think too hard about all the many ways he might have noticed the falsity of Phil’s earlier implication. It’s best, Dan finds, if he avoids all sexual thought whilst laying beside Phil in this bed, or else he could be in for another unpleasant and sleepless night of attempting to will away a stubborn erection. 

 _Nikolai,_  Dan thinks. Thinking of that twat always works to kill any wandering thoughts. “Have you spoken to Nikolai since…?”

Phil smirks again. “Since we dived into each other’s pants like horny schoolchildren?”

“Yep,” Dan squeaks.

“No, not really.” Phil’s smile fades, and Dan hates it. “Told him I needed to think about everything for a day or so. Weigh it all up.”

“Weigh up… whether or not you’re gonna go through with the divorce?”

“Basically.”

“Okay.” Dan shifts, wondering how he can ask this next part tactfully. “And… I’m guessing you didn’t mention anything about…”

Phil’s eyes flick open, and he turns his head to look at Dan, scornfully. “Oh yeah, I told him all about you, and the fact I can’t seem to keep my eyes, mind, or hands off you. And then I told him that the reason I didn’t respond to his messages for a while was because we were frantically-”

“Okay, okay!” Dan interrupts, shrill from mortification. “He’s clueless, I get it.”

Phil shakes his head against the pillow, then returns to his former position, eyes shut, his smooth, straight nose pointed at the ceiling. “What about you?” he asks. “Did you skip down to tell Louise what sordid deeds you’d been up to in your absence?”

“I told her we were hashing things out.”

Phil snorts with laughter. “Interesting terminology.”

“She thinks we sorted out our differences. Or something. To be honest I can’t remember exactly what I said. I was in a bit of a… daze.”

There’s a drawn out silence, and Dan wonders if Phil is thinking him pathetic, but then he says, “me too.”

They don’t talk for a long time after that, mostly because Dan can’t bear to tear through the blanket of rare vulnerable honesty that’s draped itself over them. After a while, Dan assumes Phil is asleep, and rolls over to try and attempt the same. As he buffets about on shore of that lake of near-unconsciousness, he hears, from below the surface, a voice, muffled and distorted by the deep water. 

“Thank you, by the way,” the voice says.

Dan frowns, barely aware of who is speaking to him. “For what?”

“For reminding me.” There’s a pause; Dan’s treading water, trying to remember what he’s supposed to have done that warrants this gratefulness. “You were right. I don’t want him.”

Dan shifts, sighing as he settles himself, slipping into the cocoon of the warm water’s embrace. “What do you want?” he asks the voice. 

It takes a long time for the voice to respond again. 

“Think you know the answer.”

*

An unfamiliar alarm pierces through Dan’s dreamless sleep, and he lurches upright, trying to figure out through a thick gloop of half-consciousness what it might be -  _fire alarm? Burglar? Avalanche warning?_  And then Phil grunts in annoyance - not fear - beside him, a pale arm snaking out from his nest of covers to the phone on his bedside. He switches the alarm off without looking.

“Thought it’d better if Louise didn’t have a reason to come looking for you again,” Phil mumbles, rolling straight back over into his nest.

“Oh,” Dan says, hands coming up to scrub the sleep from his eyes. “Thanks.”

Phil doesn’t respond, so Dan stretches his arms high above his head, and forces himself to leave the warm, soft, deliciousness of Phil’s bed. He pads across the room to the door, a bit unnerved by how natural it’s starting to become to sneak out of Phil’s bedroom in the mornings. At least this time he wasn’t caught red handed. 

He’s not sure what prompted Phil into an unusual bout of consideration by setting that alarm, but he’s grateful for it nevertheless. Dan may have somehow placated Louise’s suspicions yesterday when he’d come back down from Phil’s room probably looking very much like he’d just been ravished within an inch of his life. But Louise is far from stupid. If she caught Dan sneaking out yet again from Phil’s room, there’d be no convincing her that she was seeing things that weren’t there. 

In his own room he showers, brushes his teeth, and dresses, his mind helpfully replaying a loop of every touch, every graze of Phil’s mouth, every fervent whisper, every utter of his name from yesterday. It’s no surprise, therefore, that before he can make an appearance downstairs, Dan is forced to take care of the erection pressing insistently against his jeans.

Flushed and a little weakened from an intense orgasm brought about by picturing Phil’s large, manly hand around him, and the thin rings of ice blue around hollow, blown pupils, Dan jogs down two flights of stairs to the mezzanine, intending to begin setting up for breakfast. He’s already looking forward to the task - it’s going to feel good to slip back into his normal routine now that there are guests again. All that needs to happen for things to truly be as they were is for-

“Mona!” Dan cries, then runs at the poor woman and throws his arms around her. To her credit, she doesn’t shriek or try and push him away, though she is a bit stiff with surprise. She’s in her coat still, so Dan gets a fair bit of cold, wet snow seeping through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. She’s here, in the middle of the mezzanine with Louise, as if she’d never been gone. Dan could kiss her, but he reasons that he probably should stop doing that with every permanent resident of the hotel. “You’re back! Thank God.”

He releases her finally, and she stares at him, eyes round with concern. “Is everything alright? Were you not coping?”

“Oh, no I’ve been coping fine,” Dan assures her quickly, trying hard not to meet what he can sense is a ‘fine  _indeed_ ’ stare from Louise. “It’s just… good to have you back in charge. I’m more of a follower than a leader, I think.”

Mona doesn’t look entirely convinced, but nods anyway, clearly too distracted to give Dan’s strange behaviour any real analysis. “Yes, well, it’s good to be back I must say. You really forget, living up here, just how  _loud_  it is in normal society. Hospitals in particular are an absolute cacophony of sounds. They never stop…” She trails off, possibly noticing the sympathetic looks being directed her way. “Anyway, I’ll need a full report on everything tomorrow, Dan. I should be able to get by for today, and besides I’ve got to unpack and settle myself back into work-”

“Tomorrow?” Dan interrupts, frowning. He glances at the clock on the wall - it’s only 8am. “Why not later on today? I’ve got to set up for breakfast but it’s just the two guests, so I doubt they’ll take very long-”

Mona waves his words out the air with a tired hand. “No, no, you’re not working today. I’m giving you the day off.”

Dan’s eyebrows raise. “The what now?”

Days off in this place are as much of an alien concept as crowds of people. What would he even do with a day off, up here? His day-to-day job is pretty lenient about free time; if he wants to take a break, or have some food or a coffee or a chat with Louise, he can just do it. Mona never imposes strict rules about that kind of thing, so as long as Dan doesn’t ignore the guests or forget to serve them their meals, he can more or less get around to his tasks as he pleases. Days off just aren’t necessary.

“You’ve had to man this entire place for six days,” Mona reminds him, “after having only been here for a couple of months. You’ve done a wonderful job, I’m sure, but you deserve a break.”

Dan’s mouth opens, ready to protest, but Mona holds up a hand to silence him. “I know you’re going to argue, but this is not a choice. Enforced leisure time, starting right now.”

She’s shrugging off her coat already, revealing her usual slate grey skirt-suit combo underneath, like a second skin. Dan watches her slipping so effortlessly back into boss-mode, and reluctantly admits defeat. He’d forgotten how dominating she is for such a small woman. It’s useless to push back once she’s made up her mind.

“Lucky duck,” Louise says, stepping forwards to put an arm around Dan’s shoulders. “What are you gonna do with your day off, then?”

“Day off?” a fourth voice says, making them all turn. Phil is rounding the corner from the stairwell, dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms that look worryingly similar to the pair he’d been in yesterday when they’d… but no, Dan tells himself, they can’t be. That pair had been… worn out. Dan’s cheeks pinken just thinking about it. Phil’s wearing his glasses too, and his hair is messy, like he’s just woken up, which Dan happens to know he has. He looks gorgeous, and loose, and oddly happy as he steps into the milky light of early morning that’s flooding the room through the balcony windows. “Who has a day off?” he asks again. 

“M-Mr Novokoric,” Mona says, looking startled. Dan doesn’t blame her; he can’t be certain, but he’d guess it’s pretty unusual for Phil to engage the staff in small talk. “I was just giving Dan here the day to himself after all the hard work he’s put in over the weekend. But you needn’t worry! I’m perfectly able to handle your needs for the day. Was there a problem, or-?”

“None at all,” Phil replies, beaming at her. She looks genuinely disturbed by this, which almost makes Dan laugh. “Am I too early for breakfast?”

“No,” Mona and Dan say together.

“I’ve just got to set up outside-” Dan starts to say.

“Dan, I’m assuming you do understand the concept of a day off?” Mona asks, already brushing past him to the cupboard where they store the breakfast things. “You’ll do no such thing. Louise, make a round of coffees will you? Dan, do you want to have breakfast outside?”

Louise hesitates, looking thoughtfully between Dan and Phil before retreating into the kitchen, as if she were attempting to see the invisible tether that ties them together. Dan only realises that he hasn’t answered Mona’s question because Phil and Mona are both staring at him expectantly. Mostly because he can’t think of a reason to say no, Dan simply nods, and surrenders himself to a very peculiar morning.

*

Dan is sipping coffee out on the balcony, at a table set up how he normally sets up for guests, with a the cutlery neatly aligned on a placemat, sat on a checkered tablecloth. He has a blanket draped over his legs, and a nearby heater is pulsing thick warmth against his side. On an adjacent table, facing the same direction Dan is (overlooking the mountains in the distance) is Phil, also sipping coffee and, Dan assumes, deliberately not paying him any attention.

Moments after they’d been seated by Mona, the Huangs had appeared for their breakfast, so any chance of speaking privately had immediately been swept away. Together, the two men listen as the Huangs give their food orders to Mona, and then the light tap of her kitten heels as she trots off to the kitchen.

“So, day off, hm?” Phil murmurs under his breath after a minute or two has passed; the Huangs are deep in a separate conversation behind them, talking about the state of housing prices, and what it might mean for them when they sell one of their properties. Dan has silently been marvelling at this exchange - ‘one of’ their properties. At this point in his life, Dan can’t even imagine being able to afford so much as a small studio flat.

“I guess,” Dan murmurs back. “Not sure what I’m supposed to do all day. Not like I can pop into town to spend my paycheck or whatever.”

Phil turns his head, but Dan doesn’t dare meet his eye. Dan’s not sure what Louise has said to Mona about his and Phil’s sudden and unlikely olive branch extension, but if Louise is difficult to fool, Mona’s impossible. She’s more than aware of Dan’s long-standing dislike for Phil; she’s hardly going to believe that the two of them are suddenly the best of friends, chit-chatting happily over croissants.

“Come flying with me,” Phil says, inexplicably.

This time, Dan can’t help his head snapping around. “Sorry, what?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks. “My plane is still on the landing area, up the next peak. Let’s go for a ride.”

Dan stares, struggling to find words that will effectively convey how absurd the idea is. “And what exactly am I supposed to tell Mona and Louise we’ve run off to do? Or would you have me sneak out my window, abseil off the balcony?”

Dan’s objection only seems to amuse Phil further. He opens his mouth to say something probably moronic and irritating, but just then the balcony door opens, and Mona pushes through, carrying two bowls. Dan turns back to his coffee and phone quickly, trying to look as if he’s engrossed in his Instagram feed. She places one bowl in front of Phil, then walks the short distance to Dan’s table, and puts the other in front of him - they’re smoothie bowls, magenta pink, and sprinkled with blueberries, raspberries, coconut flakes, and globs of peanut butter.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Mona says to both of them, already heading for the door again.

“Actually,” Phil says cheerily, and Dan considers how easy it would be to murder someone with a smoothie bowl, “I was wondering if, since you won’t be needing him today, I might be able to steal your concierge for a while? I fancy taking my plane up for a bit, and I’ve got no co-pilot, you see. I’m no good at navigation up here.” Phil’s grin slips from sweet into dazzling. “I’d  _really_ appreciate another pair of hands.”

His gaze slides to Dan for a moment, a clear hidden twinkle concealed in their depths, then flicks back to Mona. 

“O-oh,” Mona says, then shoots Dan a concerned glance. “Well, of course, he can do as he likes, but I’m afraid you’d have to ask him-”

“He’s more than up for it,” Phil jumps in smoothly, before Dan can seize the opportunity to back out. He sets the mug quietly on the table in front of him, not bothering to turn to Dan, “right, Dan?”

 _Wanker_ , Dan thinks, jaw clenching. “Mmhmm.”

Mona gives him a sympathetic look, clearly under the impression that this is Dan’s idea of hell, spending the day with the man he has told her several times that he loathes. Dan’s not even sure she’s wrong. 

“Well then... no problem,” she says, giving Phil a tiny smile. “Hope the two of you have a good time.”

She scurries off, throwing Dan one final guilty look before disappearing back inside. The grin Phil aims at him is triumphant. He picks up his spoon, dips it in the centre of the pink smoothie, and deposits it directly into his mouth, pulling it out clean. It might be the first time Dan’s ever witnessed him eat a morsel, so the action is mildly hypnotising.

“God, that’s amazing,” Phil says, then goes for a second spoonful.

Dan stares in mild dismay. “I’m sorry, did you just negotiate kidnapping me in your terrifying flying machine of death for the day?”

Phil licks the back of the spoon in a manner that Dan suspects is a tad more suggestive than necessary. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of flying.”

“I’m not scared of flying!” Dan insists at once, though in truth he’s feeling wobbly just considering it. “It’s more about who’s going to be behind the steering wheel.”

“Planes don’t have steering wheels,” Phil says, and Dan rolls his eyes. He picks up his own spoon and digs in to his own smoothie bowl; Phil’s right, it’s heavenly. “Dan, I’m an experienced pilot. I’ve flown for years. You’ll be fine.”

“Do you really need me to help navigate?”

Phil makes a ‘hmm’ noise around his spoon. “It  _can_  get pretty confusing up here. All the peaks kinda look the same.”

Dan scrutinises him as he lifts spoonful after spoonful of bright pink goo to his lips. Somehow, God knows how, he even makes eating a damn smoothie bowl look erotic. Dan crosses his legs beneath the blanket. “Really?”

Phil’s teeth clink as he grins around the spoon. “Or maybe I just wanna see you squirm.”

*

In twenty-three years, Dan has only seen, in the flesh, aeroplanes of enormous size. Great, bulky monsters with incredible wingspans that take up huge portions of airport runways. Planes that fit hundreds of people inside, and guzzle fuel in huge quantities as they soar across entire continents and oceans. These are the only planes he has ever been around or inside, usually getting an aisle seat at a discount price for a cheap holiday.

Phil’s plane is not like these beasts. Phil’s plane is the length of a large lorry, and as tall as a high fir tree. It is pure white - shocking against the backdrop of blue-washed mountains - shiny, and sleek. There are two sets of black propellers either side at the front, like its spreading its long fingers in ‘jazz hands’. Its tail is flicked up towards the sky, like a whale.

It’s an extraordinary and complex looking machine. He and Phil have had to climb up a steep incline to reach the thing, and once it’s within view, Dan has half a mind to run back down again.

He can sense Phil watching him for his reaction, so Dan stops on the tarmac of this tiny landing area he’d never even known was here, trying not to appear too intimidated. He puts a hand over his eyes to block out the sun as he takes it in. He’s wearing sunglasses, of course, but the hand prevents Phil from seeing too much of his expression.

“Blimey,” Dan says.

Phil laughs. “Her name’s Susan.”

“ _Susan_?”

“She seemed intimidating before she had a name.” 

He sounds awkward, Dan notes with intrigue. It makes him feel slightly better. 

It turns out that Susan comes with a handy set of stairs, ones that automatically protrude from her door when it’s opened by Phil’s electronic key. As he climbs in after Phil, Dan wonders if he’s ever felt more out of his comfort zone than this, inside someone’s private, personal jet, 8,500 feet up a mountain, about to take off even higher.

If the outside of the plane was impressive, the inside is ten times cooler. Phil is dismissively brief as he gives the small tour, gesturing quickly to the fitted sofa, the minibar, the custom coloured lighting in the rear. He’s far more enthusiastic about the front of the plane, or the ‘cockpit’ as he calls it. There are two seats here, facing the windscreen, and it relaxes Dan somewhat to see such a familiar set up. This is just what the cockpits of the big planes look like, where the pilot and the co-pilot sit in their classy uniforms, looking professional and qualified not to crash everyone into the sea.

He looks over at Phil standing behind the pilot’s seat, slightly stooped to accommodate the curved, low ceiling of the craft. Does this man look equally as responsible as the pilots Dan has seen flying commercial planes? Dan isn’t sure.

“So, you up for it?”

Dan swallows, trying to imagine what it might be like, placing his life willingly into Phil’s hands as they soar off the edge of this mountain into the air. 

“Honestly?” Dan replies, voice thick with reluctance. “Not really. But it’s a bit late to back out.” 

Phil is oddly gracious about sitting Dan in the chair and strapping him in. Dan can’t decide if the criss-cross seatbelt that Phil draws across his chest is reassuring or an ominous foreshadowing of the turbulence ahead, but either way Phil’s big hands are steady and gentle as he tightens the straps and clicks the buckle, which is a nice distraction. He even tugs on the belt a few times to test it, which Dan is almost sure he only did to make him less nervous.

“Relax,” Phil says with an uncharacteristically soft smile, still crouched in front of Dan. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Fun for people who get off on forging their own wild ski paths, maybe,” Dan mutters, and Phil just chuckles, settling into his seat beside Dan’s and starting to flick switches and press buttons on the control pad.

The engine slowly whirrs into life, and outside Dan can see the propellers start to spin. He watches Phil adjusting controls, a tiny crease between his thick brows as he goes through some mental checklist.

“Put your belt on,” Dan blurts, noticing that Phil is moving about a bit too freely.

Phil turns to him, amused. “Thanks, mum.”

He slips his arms through the straps though, so Dan will take the jibe. There’s a strip of tarmac ahead of them, not as long as the runways Dan is used to, but he’s hoping that’s due to the plane’s size. Phil obviously managed to land on it anyway, so it must be long enough. He thinks he’s just about getting to terms with the idea that soon they’ll be heading down it, when Phil pushes something that looks like a gearstick, and the plane glides forwards, fast, speeding down the runway.

Dan swallows a yelp, hands gripping the leather of the seat beneath him. “Is it too late to get off?” he squeaks, wishing he’d thought to ring his mother before this, if only to inform her that soon she’ll be needing to make memorial arrangements for her son that disappeared somewhere in the region of the Swiss Alps.

“‘Fraid so,” Phil replies cheerfully.

It’s a small consolation to note, even as they speed towards what appears to be a sheer edge at the end of the tarmac, that Phil is wearing that same blissfully happy expression Dan remembers from when they went skiing together. He looks elated, and totally free of cares; it might be a truly wonderful sight to behold, were Dan not currently on the verge of shitting himself.

He shuts his eyes as they approach the end of the runway, preparing himself for a hideous plummet, and then there’s a push of weightlessness, like they’re buoying in a pool of water. Bravely, Dan opens one eye to peer out of the windscreen, and finds, to his abject shock, that they’re in the air. The nose of the plane is pointed towards the tips of the peaks in the distance, as the plane inches higher into the stratosphere.

It’s a slow ascent, but with every inch of sky that drowns the ground below it, Dan grows more amazed. He’d known the mountains up here were astoundingly beautiful, but from above, with every one of them visible, peaking and dipping and stretching their snow-glossed bodies over the earth, it’s nothing short of spectacular.

He notices, after a moment or two of pure, stunned silence, that Phil is no longer looking out the windscreen - instead, he’s got his eyes fixed on Dan’s face. “Are you really scared?” he asks, looking concerned.

And the thing is, Dan isn’t. Not anymore. Not really. He meets Phil’s eyes - those mountain-blue, glacial eyes - and feels their power flood through him in a glorious wave, melting the fear from his bones. He relaxes into the chair at his back as the milky sun, usually blocked by the peaks at this time, pours through the glass and warms him. He smiles at Phil, a soupy, lazy calm treacling over his body. 

“I’m good.”

*

They’ve been flying for some time, enjoying the peace of total isolation, when Phil unbuckles his seatbelt. Instantly, Dan’s head whips round in alarm. “What are you doing?”

Phil aims an eye-roll at him. “I was just gonna jump out of the cabin door, wanna join?” Dan purses his lips, heart thudding, but doesn’t deign to respond. “I’m just stretching,” Phil says, “jeez, you are kind of a wimp, aren’t you?”

True to his word, Phil’s arms raise above his head, knuckles brushing the roof of the plane as he stretches out, his shirt buttons straining against his puffed out chest. Dan tries not to watch too closely, but it’s difficult when Phil has willingly flung off his only safety apparatus to indulge in unnecessary comfort. Eventually, his arms lower, and he sighs heavily, digging into his pocket for his phone.

“Okay, you can put it back on now,” Dan says sternly, making Phil laugh.

He re-pockets his phone, turning in his chair to face Dan. For a long moment, he seems to be deliberating something, and then he says, “come steer for a bit.”

“Hilarious. Put your belt on.”

Phil grins, his tongue just visible through his two rows of brilliant, straight teeth. “I’m serious. They say the best way to get over a fear of flying is to learn to fly. So, I’ll give you a rundown.”

“Very kind of you, but I’m good right here, thanks. Put your seatbelt on.”

“Dan, the plane’s going straight anyway, and it’s not as if there are any obstacles up here,” Phil says, apparently serious. “Come on, you can sit here.”

He spreads his legs wide, revealing a patch of chair between them into which he apparently thinks Dan is going to squeeze. “I’ll show you what to do.”

The shiver that goes down Dan’s neck is born of fear, Dan tells himself, and nothing to do with the suggestive stance Phil has taken. Maybe he’s ignorant of how it looks, but probably not. “Really, you’re doing a grand job as you are,” Dan says. “I’ll learn another time.”

“I thought you weren’t the coward out of the two of us,” he says, voice low and filled with unspoken meaning.

It’s the first time today that either of them have acknowledged what happened yesterday; Dan simply doesn’t expect it. He flushes, having to drag his eyes from Phil’s. After a moment’s dithering, he decides he cannot live with Phil winning their previous argument about which of them is the coward, even if it’s ridiculous to prove bravery by doing something reckless. With shaking fingers, Dan manages to undo the buckle of his seatbelt.

Thankfully, Phil doesn’t gloat about the fact he’s convinced Dan, otherwise Dan might have had to push him out of the plane. He stands up carefully, one hand on the control panel to steady himself as he steps over to Phil’s seat, and sits himself primly between Phil’s legs. He’s right on the edge of the chair, trying hard to take up as little space as possible, but he can still feel Phil in every patch of space around him, in the air he’s breathing, in the heat between their bodies.

“Okay,” Dan manages to say, though he feels like he’s about to throw up from the stress of it all. “Now what?”

Phil’s arms thread themselves underneath his, either side of Dan’s waist in order to reach the controls. Dan shuts his eyes in an attempt to block out the glorious sensation, lest he relate it to events of yesterday and get caught up in his own fantasy.

“Just a sec.” 

Phil’s arms hook under his before Dan knows what’s happening, and pull him sharply backwards, so Dan is pressed against Phil’s chest. His cheeks flame at once; he thinks about struggling away again, but he just…  _really_  doesn’t want to. Being nestled against Phil like this is calming, for one, and also totally beguiling in a way he finds difficult to articulate. He suspects it’s to do with how Phil’s lean, hard chest feels against his back, or maybe the way his thighs bracket Dan’s hips. It’s more likely to do with how Dan’s ass is pressed so firmly against Phil’s crotch region, but he’s trying quite hard not to think about that. Phil reaches for the seatbelt straps hanging either side of them, and pulls them right around both of their bodies, securing the buckle at Dan’s chest.

“Oh,  _now_  you buckle up,” Dan manages to taunt, though his voice is ridiculously breathy from nerves. 

“Safety first,” Phil says with a chuckle, right at Dan’s ear. “Ready for your lesson?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Nope,” Phil replies, then finds Dan’s hands and places them on the strange object in front of them that looks like a set of antlers. “Now, this is the yoke.”

Having Phil’s big, gorgeous hands covering his is, on top of everything else, just a bit too distracting, so instead of a reasonable response, Dan says, “like an egg?”

“...no. It’s how you steer the plane.”

“R-right. Should I move it?”

“If you like,” Phil says.

Cautiously, Dan tilts the yoke to the left; the plane gently tips, and Dan stops breathing, immediately levelling it again. “That’s enough of that,” he squeaks, making Phil laugh. Dan can feel his breath as it tickles his right ear; very,  _very_  distracting. “What else?”

“Want to do a spin?”

“No!”

Phil laughs harder, and Dan realises he was joking. “Asshole.”

“Just swerve if you see an oncoming plane or a bird or something,” Phil says, then removes his hands from Dan’s, and leans back in the chair.

“What?! Wait, I don’t know-”

“You’ll be fine, I’m right here.” In the silence that follows this odd reassurance, Phil awkwardly clears his throat, like he knows it was a touch too kind for their usual dynamic. “So, have you always been a wet blanket, or is it a recent thing?”

“You’re such a prick,” Dan says through the gritted teeth of his concentration-face. His knuckles are white around the yoke, eyes darting to and fro for UFO’s about to swerve into his path. “I do brave things. I abandoned my life to live up here, didn’t I?”

“Hmm, not sure running away from your problems to go live up a mountain counts as brave exactly…”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I’m here under duress.”

“So you say,” Dan mutters, and thankfully Phil doesn’t seem to bother with a retort.

The plane glides slowly and easily through a pale blue sky, meeting no resistance, as if it were skimming across the surface of a calm sea. As Dan grows used to the feel of it shuddering beneath his hands, his grip loosens on the yoke, and he even starts to relax.

Phil must sense the easing of his taut muscles, because he chuckles and says, “told you it’s not scary.”

“Oh, forgive me for being a little sceptical of your ability to control this death trap considering yesterday you couldn’t keep from shoving your hand down my pants.”

Phil’s chest stiffens slightly in surprise, and then he laughs again. “Oh, we’re going there, are we?”

“Oh, right, right sorry,” Dan replies, piling on the sarcasm because his heart is thumping adrenaline around his body, and arguing with Phil is a familiar routine that weirdly feels calming. “I forgot - we’re pretending it never happened.”

“Mm,” Phil says, then leans up to press himself against Dan, his thighs squeezing around Dan’s legs. He brings his lips to Dan’s ear. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Dan’s hands slip off the yoke entirely. There’s a distinct and tangible change in the atmosphere, like the air has thickened and grown heavier. Dan can suddenly feel Phil against every inch of him where their bodies touch - why hadn’t he realised before how insanely close they are, strapped together in this one seat, Phil wrapped around him like a blanket?

“Um…”

“Because, I have to say Dan,” Phil continues in a silky smooth voice, one hand skimming lightly down Dan’s front, “I don’t think I’m coping very well with that plan.”

“No?” Dan’s voice is embarrassingly thin, like his voicebox is being squeezed in a tight grip. All he can sense is the heat from Phil’s fingertips, scorching his chest as they trickle across his shirt.

“I’m not very good at pretending,” Phil admits. His lips are so close to Dan’s ear that they could almost be brushing it, though they don’t quite. Dan tries to hold in a shiver, but can’t. “I’ve been thinking about you. About how you sounded. About how you tasted.”

Dan’s breath hitches, his hand flying to cover Phil’s before it dips too low and he can’t control himself. “You want to talk about this  _now_ , you dick?”

Dan can feel the stretch of Phil’s lips as he smiles, right by his ear. “Why not now?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be, y’know, concentrating?”

“It’s okay,” Phil says, and then bites, gently, on Dan’s earlobe. “I trust you.”

As Phil’s teeth clamp around the sensitive skin of his ear, Dan scrabbles for the seatbelt buckle, undoing it in a fumble before springing to his feet. He throws himself back into the other chair, heart going a mile a minute, flushed from his forehead down.

“I am not dying in a plane crash because you are too horny to see straight,” Dan informs him tartly, even though his reptile-brain is screaming at him to dive back into Phil’s lap no matter if they smash into the side of a mountain. “We said  _never again,_  remember that?”

Phil sighs heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “It was yesterday, dipshit, of course I remember.”

Dan sighs too, more at Phil’s inconsistent attitude problem than anything else. “Is this why you brought me up here?”

“Not… the only reason.”

Dan stares at him, astounded. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thanks.”

They’re silent for a few more minutes; Phil’s hands float back up to the yoke, though it’s clear he doesn’t need to steer, as the plane is moving straight through a clear, empty sky.

“You’ve really been thinking about me?” Dan’s mouth says, entirely without his permission. Phil’s head turns, evidently surprised. Dan doesn’t meet his eye. “Since we… y’know.”

“Wanked each other off?”

Dan tries to hide his reaction, though probably doesn’t do a great job. When he turns to glare at Phil for being so crude, he’s met with a fond, amused smile that he’s coming to find very familiar.

“Yes,” Dan replies.

“I think about you constantly.”

This is not the response Dan had been expecting. He studies Phil’s profile as he stares out the windscreen, but he’s showing no signs of teasing. If anything, he looks wearied by the confession, as if he’s tired of keeping it to himself.

“What sort of stuff,” Dan finds himself asking; as soon as the words are out, he knows he’s struck a match on the fuse.

Phil turns to him slowly, eyes bright and sparkling. “Want me to show you?”

Dan has no idea where he’s summoning all this newfound courage from - possibly it’s from the adrenaline of doing something that feels so dangerous, in a variety of ways. Whatever the reason for it, he nods, then watches, wide-eyed, as Phil flips a switch to ‘auto-pilot’, then gets up from his chair. He walks the small distance to Dan with such grace, even though the craft they’re in is far from steady, and Dan hadn’t managed to cross the gap without stumbling.

Phil kneels down in front of him in the small area at Dan’s feet, then rests his hands on Dan’s knees. “If I had time, and freedom, and space,” Phil says, “I’d taste every inch of you. If you’d let me.”

Dan’s mouth opens a slit, sensing what’s coming. “But you can’t,” he says.

“No,” Phil says. “But I could taste you here.” He leans up, hands on the armrests, to place a kiss on Dan’s mouth. Eyes interlocked, Phil sinks back to his knees, then smiles. “Or… elsewhere.”

The direction of Phil’s gaze travels downwards, until it rests on Dan’s crotch. It’s a fleeting glance, lasting seconds, and then his eyes latch back onto Dan’s. Dan’s mouth feels dry, the air suddenly stifling. He wishes he could take off his jacket without the gesture being unintentionally loaded.

“What about the plane?” Dan asks in a whisper.

Phil lets out a burst of laughter, hands skimming over Dan’s thighs. “I’ve never known anyone like you. I’m offering you a blowjob, and you care about the fucking plane trajectory?”

“I-I’ve never…” Dan starts to confess, but doesn’t get very far, cut off by the feeling of Phil’s fingers, toying with his jeans button.

Phil’s eyebrow quirks. “Never… from a guy?”

Dan’s lips press together. “From anyone.”

Phil’s fingers still on Dan’s jeans. “Your ex- the girl. She didn’t…?”

Dan shakes his head, vaguely aware that his fingers are trembling against the armrests. Seeing Phil from this angle is exhaustingly arousing. He looks comfortable, relaxed - the opposite of Dan - like he’s sinking into position, familiar and eager. Dan’s never wanted to urge someone on more, whilst also wanting to leap away from temptation.

“She said she wasn’t… into that.”

Phil’s mouth does a strange twisting thing before relaxing into a confident smile. “Guess you’re pretty lucky then,” he says after a while, and flicks Dan’s jeans button through its hole.

“L-lucky?”

Phil begins inching the zipper down, slow and teasing, then hooks his fingers into the waistband. “I’m very good at this.”

“Can always rely on your modesty,” Dan manages to say as the feeble remains of his resolve crumble into dust.

He lifts his hips as Phil pulls the jeans down, until they’re trapped around his ankles. He then does the same with Dan’s underwear, eyes lasering in on Dan’s cock as it bobs free. It should feel sinful, wrong somehow, but all Dan can think is how gorgeous he looks with slick lips, and that longing in his glittering eyes.

He flicks those eyes up to Dan’s, smirking. “Don’t believe me?”

His words radiate confidence, but his voice trembles. Dan wonders how often he has thought about this, and whether he might be worried it won’t live up to his expectation. Dan doesn’t answer; he’s not sure he could. Phil’s fingers curl around the exposed length of him, as they had yesterday, warm and tight. It feels incredible, like nothing could possibly be better, but Dan knows, even in his ignorance, that there’s so much more to come.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to last all that long, given his inexperience. Phil takes his time, and that’s an understatement. His hand moves in gentle, unhurried movements, loosely fisting Dan as he settles himself in the tight spot he’s chosen in front of Dan’s seat. He leans in close, dragging soft lips over the tip, pushing so gently, so lightly, that Dan has to swallow a groan of frustration. Just as Dan’s about to smack him for teasing, Phil’s tongue sweeps across the head of his cock, and Dan’s conscious brain slithers out of his ears.

No amount of porn watching, or graphic descriptions in erotic fiction, could have prepared him for the sensation of Phil’s clever tongue against him, licking and swirling, like he truly does want to taste every bit of Dan he can reach.

Dan’s fingers dig into the seat rest; it’s taking a hell of a lot of restraint to prevent himself from jolting his hips forwards, but he knows that’s not courteous blowjob-receiving practice. Phil’s fist continues slowly moving over him, and in a miraculous move, Phil pushes his mouth over the tip of Dan’s cock, sinking down to meet the circle of his thumb and forefinger. It happens so quickly, so suddenly, that a moan crawls out from somewhere in the base of Dan’s throat, low and guttural - a sound he’s never uttered before, he’s sure.

To distract himself from the intense urge to thrust himself deeper into the delicious, hot wet cavern of Phil’s mouth, Dan curls his fingers into Phil’s long hair. Phil makes a noise as he does it, a pleased sigh, like he’s been waiting for Dan to do just that. He sinks lower, impossibly so, until it seems that Dan hits the soft wall of his throat, and then pushes beyond it, into a close, soft, tunnel.

Dan is already near to coming, and sparking with adrenaline to boot, so he just grips Phil’s hair and tries to remain lucid, as he knows he will definitely be wanting to call on this memory in the future. Out of the windscreen, above Phil’s bobbing head, the wide blue sky is cloudless and blank, devoid of so much as a bird. Up here they are totally freed of watching eyes, of judgement and disapproval. All there is is Phil’s mouth, and his dilated eyes as they meet Dan’s from below, watching him intently, like he can’t bear to miss a moment.

It’s agony, blissful and terrible at once, and Dan really cannot hold on much longer. He’s vaguely aware that he’s saying Phil’s name, a mantra falling from his bitten lips. He’s never known pleasure so consuming, so hypnotising. He wants Phil never to stop, he wants Phil inside of him, with his tongue and his fingers and every other way possible. He wants to lock them together, away from the world like they are right now, so they can explore each other in all the ways they yearn to, but can’t.

He opens his mouth, ready to tell Phil all of this, but instead all that comes out is, “I’m gonna come.”

Phil pulls off rapidly, and Dan almost weeps at the abrupt loss of sensation. Phil surges up, kisses him, a flash of salt and damp, then sinks back down once again. “I want to taste you,” he says for the second time, then takes Dan’s cock back into his mouth, moving his head up and down at a quicker, more eager pace.

In an abrupt relinquishment of his inhibition, Dan lets go of the frayed knot he’s holding together, and unravels completely, each thread of his being ripping from the seams as his orgasm slashes through him. Phil’s eyes flutter as he swallows, and Dan knows instantly it’s an image that will stay with him forever. Phil, on his knees, hair mussed, cheeks hollowed, half-lidded with ecstasy as he tastes Dan on his tongue.

When he pulls off, he’s breathing heavily, lips plump and parted, a glazed look of lust in his eyes. Dan is equally as dishevelled, trying to get his breath back and cover his modesty; it’s just now occurring to him how naked he is in comparison to Phil, still fully dressed right down to his jacket.

For a moment, Phil presses his face against Dan’s bare thigh, just breathing. And then he leans away, gets unsteadily to his feet, and slumps back into his pilot chair.

“O-okay,” Dan stutters out, pulling his trousers back up. “I concur. You are really good at that.”

Phil’s responding smile is aimed towards the windscreen. “Told you.”

He reaches for the autopilot switch, and Dan looks on in confusion, sitting forward and reaching over to place a hand on Phil’s arm. “Hey,” he says, wishing he could slip into an effortlessly seductive, low voice the way Phil does, “let me… don’t you want me to…”

It’s more than embarrassing, not being able to spit the words out, considering Phil literally just had Dan’s dick down his throat. But Dan’s not used to the idea of sexual acts being candidly discussed. Beth never liked to talk about sex. She liked having it occasionally, usually after a few glasses of wine, when she’d likely pretend Dan was someone else. It hadn’t bothered Dan much honestly. Sometimes he’d wonder whether it was peculiar that they did it so rarely, and if he should be concerned. But mostly he was kind of glad. Beth was pretty and all, but he never felt the sizzling heat of arousal that he did when doing things with guys.

Gently, Phil prizes Dan’s hand off his arm, threads their fingers together and squeezes once, briefly, before letting go. “We should turn back,” he says, sounding apologetic.

“Oh,” Dan says, trying not to sound dejected by the rebuttal. “Okay, cool.”

Phil laughs, small and still a bit breathy. “I’m just worried if we go any further then we won’t have enough fuel to get home. I’m not about to forget that you owe me.”

A spiral of thrill twirls in Dan’s gut, already projecting ahead to that moment. “I see. And when will you be collecting this debt?”

“Hmm, think I’ll leave that up to you.”

He tilts the yoke then, sharply, making Dan yelp as the plane careers to one side. Dan still hasn’t refastened his seatbelt, but he does so now, cursing at Phil for trying to kill him. Phil just laughs, buckling his own straps, and swerves the plane a full 180 degrees, angling them back towards, as he put it, ‘home’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter fourteen coming next friday 8pm GMT!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one tequila two tequila three tequila floor...

Mona looks up from the desk as Dan walks through the door; he’d been hoping to avoid her, but quickly adjusts his expression into the neutral one he’s been subtly practicing on the long walk back to the hotel. Phil is a step behind him, and as they cross the threshold, Dan ensures there is a reasonable distance between them as they make their way over the lobby towards her. Phil must be aiming that disarmingly brilliant smile at her, because she’s wearing a stunned expression like she had earlier.

“You’re back,” she says, standing from her chair. “Was it all…” Her dark eyes flick between the two men. “...okay?”

“Not sure whether Dan has a future career as a navigator, but he did well enough,” Phil replies smoothly. He begins shrugging off his coat, and Mona practically leaps out from behind the desk to take it from him. “Thanks,” he says to her, which again must be a rarity, judging by her startled responding stare. “Think I’m gonna hit the gym,” Phil says, the epitome of cool and casual in contrast to Dan, who is a perpetual rattling bone-bag of nerves. He spins to face Dan, tossing him the briefest of glances. “Thanks for that, Dan,” he says; if there’s a hidden meaning in those words, only Dan could ever know it was there. “See you later.”

He turns away again, as if they’re no more than mere, forced acquaintances. Dan nods wordlessly at Phil’s disappearing back, knowing that if he tried to match Phil’s nonchalance verbally he’d likely end up blurting that they just became the newest Mile High Club members to poor, unsuspecting Mona. Phil heads for the stairs, and Dan forces himself not to watch him go. Instead, he focuses on removing his own jacket.

|Unfortunately, almost the second Phil is out of earshot, Mona pounces on him, eyes wide and curious. “Was that truly awful? I’m so sorry, Dan, when I gave you the day off I’d no idea that he’d ask you to-”

“It’s okay,” Dan assures her, “it, uh, wasn’t that bad.”

Mona’s forehead creases beneath her fringe. “But you’re still not fond of him, I take it?”

Dan clears his throat, avoiding her eye. All he can think about is the sight of Phil on his knees in the cockpit, eyes glazed, lips stretched around him.

“Oh no,” Dan croaks in the least convincing voice he’s ever heard leave his throat, “he’s still a wanker.”

Mona, mercifully, doesn’t seem to notice the false note in Dan’s voice. Her mind’s probably still on other things. It occurs to Dan that he hasn’t properly asked about her time away, and feels guilty.

“Might want to avoid slating the guests quite so loudly,” Mona replies, trit-trotting across the lobby to hang up Phil’s coat. “As it’s your day off I suppose I can let it slide. You’re a free citizen today.”

“Mona,” Dan starts, ferreting about for the right words to say, “I just wanted to say - I’m really sorry. About your grandmother.”

She stops, hands still on the coat as she hangs it on the rack. She turns to face him slowly, a sad smile trickling across her face. “Thank you, Dan.”

An awkwardness descends upon the empty lobby; Dan has never known what to say in situations like these, and if the silence stretches on much longer, he’ll likely just shove his foot right in the middle of it. Luckily, Mona is much better at this kind of thing than him. She smooths down her skirt, then heads back for the desk in a clear ‘time to move on’ action.

“Off you go, then,” she says briskly, at once the manager again. “Plenty of the day left to spend without forced quality time with your nemesis.”

Dan's responding smile is both grateful and likely reeking of admiration for her professionalism; he hopes she can see that. He nods at her, and heads for the mezzanine stairs.

*

It’s just after one o’clock, and Dan’s lurking outside the gym, trying to make a mental list of reasons not to go inside. So far he’s got: 

1\. Phil might accidentally hit him again. 

2\. Phil might not-accidentally hit him again. (Sure, he didn’t seem pissed off with Dan when he had his mouth around his cock, but Phil’s got the temperament of a bitch on heat - who knows if something or someone has triggered another bout of moodiness). 

3\. Someone else might be in there. (As Dan is quite obviously the least likely person to go into a gym willingly, it might be a bit difficult to explain what he’s doing there to anyone else).

And that’s it. He’s spent the last half hour in the kitchen, receiving a grilling so thorough from Louise that he feels a bit like the toast she’d made for him. She’d pelted questions at him about the flight, so invasive that Dan almost felt like she’d somehow been there, watching through a camera in the cockpit, and was subsequently trying to catch him out.

_“How many engines did it have?”_

_“Did you land smoothly?”_

_“What colour were the seats?”_

_“How fast did you go?”_

_“Was there turbulence?”_

_“What did you talk about?”_

On and on and on. Dan never had to lie to her exactly, but in omitting the most significant part of the trip, he created an air of secrecy, he’s sure. So, he’d wolfed the toast and tea down as fast as possible, then scarpered. Of course, there aren’t many places to scarper  _to_  in this small hotel, so Dan had gone up to his room for a while. This turned out to be a bad idea, as being on his own meant that he was free to loop the sensation of Phil’s mouth on him over and over, until he was so horny he could barely think straight. 

To make it worse, he’s all too aware of that ‘debt’ he owes Phil. It presses deeply into the walls of his brain, whispering insistently into his eardrum, detailing all the many ways he might repay that debt, and urging him to do it sooner rather than later. 

So now, riled up from being isolated for a few hours with his own randy brain, Dan has - probably ill-advisedly - come downstairs to find the person who put him in this position, in the hopes of… well. He’s not going in with any pre-existing expectations. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that Phil will have flipped into dick-mode again and will sock Dan in the jaw before he can so much as lay a finger on him.

With a sigh at his own weak-will, Dan mentally flushes his list of reasons not to, and pushes open the gym door; he’s sort of been willing Mona or a guest to round the corner and discover him, force him to turn tail and relax into a non-incriminating activity elsewhere. But no such luck. 

Phil is lifting weights, sat on a bench, one arm curling upwards as he pulls the barbell towards him. He’s got headphones in, and his forehead is furrowed in concentration. He finishes his set and places the barbell down carefully, flexing his fingers. He gets up, oblivious to Dan watching from the doorway, and goes to retrieve his towel, slung over a chair near the mirrors.

His back is to Dan now, but his front is visible in the mirror, allowing Dan to surreptitiously study every inch of him. His white shirt is practically sopping, clinging to his spine and chest. He’s been raking fingers through his hair, perhaps to keep it out of his eyes, and it’s so damp it’s stayed in position, slicked back like he’s one of the T-Birds.

He passes the towel over his face, murmuring along to whatever song he’s listening to. Heat crawls over Dan’s skin as if he’d been working out right alongside Phil, though of course that thought is laughable. He knows he should make a sound, alert Phil to the fact he’s here, watching, but he wants a few moments longer to just…. look. So often Phil will make some sarcastic, wanky remark that cuts through the atmosphere and ruins everything. When he’s quiet, he’s gorgeous, and nothing spoils it.

Before Dan can make a decision about whether to intrude, Phil reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, and lifts it off completely. His torso is shiny with perspiration, lean and toned. It’s not a six-pack reveal, just delicious, firm muscle coating every inch of his chest and back. Dan lets out a breathy noise, feeling a zip of pure lust whip through him. Luckily, Phil is still ignorant to his presence, airpods in.

But Dan is unable to remain still any longer. He treads further into the gym, letting the door swing shut behind him. It makes enough of a sound to have Phil looking up, catching Dan’s eye in the mirror. He throws the towel to the floor, the hint of a smile gracing his lips. He pulls one airpod out of his ear, then the other, putting them in his shorts pocket.  

“Spying on me?”

Dan can feel his heart picking up speed as the tense, sharp atmosphere settles around them. The air smells like sweat and rubber; Dan imagines he can taste Phil on his tongue, rushing into his lungs with every breath he takes. He inches closer, not really aware of telling his feet to move.

“Maybe I wanna work out,” Dan replies shyly. He notes that despite the fact Phil clearly has a change of clothes in his gym bag in the corner, he’s making no move to re-dress.

Phil’s mouth twitches. “Need a spotter?” He reaches for his water bottle, the fluorescent light rippling over his damp shoulders. “Someone to stretch you out, maybe?”

He lifts the water bottle to his lips and drinks; Dan’s never thought of Adams apples being particularly attractive, but realises now, watching Phil’s bob up and down the length of his long, bristled throat, how mistaken he’s been. He licks his lips, suddenly parched.

“You know you said, earlier,” Dan says, the sight of Phil this way already loosening his tongue. He imagines his pupils are dilated, blown into black holes by the pheromones he can feel misting from Phil’s skin. “That you’d let me decide when to…” he’s inched his way into Phil’s personal bubble now, which he’d never normally do so boldly, but he can’t seem to make his feet behave. “When to repay you?”

He can feel his own flush, creeping across his cheeks, down his neck, but he ignores it, hoping Phil doesn’t mistake it for nerves. His hand reaches up without permission, pressing the pads of his fingers to Phil’s bare chest. Amusedly, Phil’s gaze drops to the place their skin meets, then lifts it back to Dan’s.

“I think I vaguely recall,” Phil says; if Dan’s not mistaken, there’s a faint blush skimming his cheeks as well, though there’s no way to know if that’s from exercise. “You want to… go upstairs? I can meet you in your room-”

“No,” Dan interrupts, a bit too loudly. His hand slides up Phil’s chest, over his shoulder. It’s damp and unnaturally warm. “Too far away. Too many obstacles.”

He pushes insistently against Phil’s chest, making him take a step backwards, until he’s against the mirror. “Dan,” Phil says, chuckling, “I’m all sweaty, let me at least-”

But Dan can’t take a second more of waiting. He leans in to push his lips against the acres of exposed skin in front of him, right above where Phil’s heart pounds. He can feel the reverberations of its rhythm beneath Phil’s sinew and bone; it’s electrifying.

“Oh, I see,” Phil purrs, much lower, hands coming up to skim over Dan’s arms, “you _like_  it.”

Dan pauses, looking up at him. He feels caught out, exposed, like Phil’s suddenly revealed he’s a furry or something. He tries to look like the idea is absurd, that he’s completely in control of himself, but Phil’s smile has turned wolfish, poised to pounce on the vulnerable area he’s revealed.

“D’you like it when I’m all hot and sweaty, Dan?”

Dan’s stomach tightens, and he feels his erection stiffening beneath his jeans. He wishes he weren’t so easily affected by this wanker and his precision-bladed words, but it’s useless to pretend. 

“Maybe,” he allows himself to say, the admission rippling a wave of heat over his body, deepening the blush no doubt. To distract himself from his own embarrassment, Dan smooths his hands down through Phil’s thin pelt of chest hair, then leans in again, this time to bury his face in the crook of Phil’s neck. It makes Phil jump ever so slightly, evidently not expecting it. “You just smell so  _good_ ,” Dan whispers, eyelids fluttering in pleasure as he breathes in - it smells like sex, if he’s honest, but a headier, sweeter, richer kind. He’s never felt so affected by scent before, like it’s dispersed in the air around him, like it’s on his tongue, filling his lungs. He imagines clouds of it permeating his brain, puffing up wild thoughts, making him want to shove his hand into Phil’s shorts and drive him to ecstasy. “Let me-”

He cuts himself off, licking up Phil’s neck, one hand reaching up to burrow into Phil’s hair. He’d been right, it’s almost wet from perspiration, staying in whatever position Dan scrunches it into. Phil’s neck tastes of salt, and something sweetly-sour but delicious, so Dan licks again, from collarbone to ear, and Phil groans.

It’s the best sound Dan has ever heard. Phil’s hands are on Dan’s hips, pulling him closer, allowing Dan to feel how hard he is through the thin material of his shorts. Dan pushes into it, lets their groins align and skim against each other, sparks of pleasure firing through him. Dan drags his mouth over Phil’s throat, letting the faint stubble scratch over his chin, and then he bites down, right where shoulder meets neck, into a thick squeeze of tight muscle. Phil moans again, a hand bracing the back of Dan’s head.

“Dan, wait, don’t- ah  _fuck_ -”

Not listening, Dan continues to bite, to suck, to lave his tongue over the spot he’s chosen, imagining the bruise he’ll leave there, and how it will remain, violet and crimson, on display for everyone. Phil whimpers, his other hand slipping round to grab at Dan’s ass, to pull their crotches together even more.

It’s then that the unmistakable sound of voices are audible, getting closer, and Phil pushes Dan backwards, perhaps with a little more force than necessary, Dan can’t help but think. He stumbles, steadying himself on the punching bag, breathing hard. Both of them look towards the door, terrified, and Phil grabs for his gym bag, pulling out a clean t-shirt. Dan only has time to wipe his mouth, then stick a hand in his pocket to try and hide his erection, before the door swings open, and in walks Mona with three strangers.

“And this is our gym as you can see- oh! Mr Novokoric, I’m sorry I-” She stops, catching sight of Dan, bright red and breathing hard, trying and probably failing  to act nonchalant as he leans against the wall. “Dan. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, um, j-just, um-”

The end of his sentence avoids his grasp, so Dan is more than grateful when Phil jumps in to save him. “I asked Dan to help me train,” Phil says - thankfully, the breathlessness of his voice could easily be attributed to strenuous physical activity. “To time me, and check my technique and, uh, that kind of thing. Had him do a few exercises too, as you can see.”

He laughs, slightly off-kilter; Dan tries not to look at Phil, sure that if he did, Mona would see the lust in his eyes. Mona seems to buy the excuse anyway, as she turns back to the three strangers at her rear, smiling. “Dan is our concierge, and Mr Novokoric is one of our guests.” She turns to Dan and Phil. “The Fitzgerald family arrived just a moment ago. They won a three-night stay here through a competition arranged by our British booking agency, isn’t that lovely?”

Something about the way she says it seems tense, as if it’s the least lovely thing she could imagine. In another circumstance, Dan might find this amusing.

“Nice to meet you,” Dan manages to blurt, lifting his hand in a wave.

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, “pleasure.”

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” asks the middle-aged ginger woman, presumably Mrs Fitzgerald, who is dressed in pink floral thermals.

Phil swallows, ducking his head. “Uh, not that I know of-”

“Oh my God, you’re that Prince’s feller, aren’t you?”

Nausea creeps up Dan’s throat, sensing Phil’s discomfort. To his credit, Phil sends the woman a charming smile, then nods. “I suppose I am.”

“Blimey, mate,” huffs the balding, crooked-toothed man beside her, stepping closer towards Phil as if he’s after a better look, “bloody mad what you did the other day, weren’t it? Bet that didn’t go down too well with your hubby!”

Phil’s cheeks redden, and he looks to Mona for help. She jumps to attention, obviously incensed at the audacity of these people. Dan has half a mind to yell at them himself for daring to bring up such an obviously touchy subject with someone they’ve only just met - luckily, Mona gets there first.

“Excuse me Mr Fitzgerald, but I rather think we should leave Mr Novokoric to his training now, if you’ll just follow me…” she begins ushering them gently but firmly back through the door. The third stranger, a girl of about sixteen with fading blue streaks in her hair, stares wide-eyed at Phil as she’s hurried back out of the gym. Mona, the last one to leave, mouths ‘sorry’ at Phil, guiltily, and then pulls the door shut behind her.

Phil’s hand falls from his neck, where he’d been covering what Dan now sees is a bright, and extremely obvious hickey. “Shit,” Dan says, stepping closer to look. Phil takes a hasty step backwards then, so Dan pauses, unsure. “Are you okay?”

Phil shakes his head, contrasting with his quick answer of, “fine.”

“I’m sure Mona will have a word with them about not bothering you-”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Phil interrupts tersely. He starts packing things into his gym bag, then pulls his phone out of one of the zipper pockets. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “Can’t I ever get a break?”

Dan doesn’t need to ask who’s been texting and calling him. “I shouldn’t have, like, tried to- y’know.” Dan blushes, once again an animé schoolgirl, flustered in front of her Senpai. “With you, in here of all places. I’m only making things worse for you. More stressful. If we’d been caught-”

“Hm?” Dan notices belatedly that Phil is barely listening, too engrossed in his phone. He glances up, catching Dan’s eye briefly. “Forget it. My fault too.” He pockets the phone with a deep sigh, then hitches his gym bag onto his shoulder. “I’ve gotta go shower. I’ll catch you later.”

*

For the fourth time in under five minutes, Dan switches the channel, landing on something resembling a soap, in Swiss French. A couple are fighting, pummelling each other with gentle fists, which quickly descends into a furious, passionate make out session. Irritable, Dan changes the channel again.

In the next moment, Mona is snatching the remote out of his hand. “I want you to have an enjoyable day off, Dan, but there is a limit. Other people tend to prefer watching more than a few snatched seconds of a programme at a time.”

Guiltily, Dan turns to see that he’s not the only one in the lounge; he’s somehow blocked out the sight of the three Fitzgeralds sat crossly behind him at a table. Dan sighs, struggling out of the beanbag chair.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly at the Fitzgerald family. “Didn’t think anyone else was here.”

“What’s the matter?” Mona asks quietly, walking beside him as he ambles towards the kitchen, hoping to beg some snacks off Louise. “Are you in a mood because Mr Novokoric made you help him with his training?”

More like because that ‘training’ came to an abrupt and frustrating end, Dan thinks privately, but nods anyway at Mona. He can’t think of a different excuse. “Yeah. It’s okay though, I’m just grumpy. I’ll go wallow in my room so I don’t disturb the other guests.”

He leans through the serving hatch to peer about for Louise. She’s knelt on the floor in front of the freezer, rifling through the drawer for something. 

Mona thumps Dan on the back and calls out, “Lou, get this boy something fruity and alcoholic, please.”

Dan turns to her, surprised. “It’s five-thirty.”

“And, for the hundredth time, it’s your day off. Relax. Go read a book. Listen to loud music. Heck, go in the hot tub. And for God’s sake, have a drink so you’ll stop moping about.”

She gives him one last warning look before bustling off, leaving Dan alone at the serving hatch to watch Louise prepare some sort of cocktail. “Oooh, what about a tequila sunrise?” she asks, sounding so excited by the prospect that Dan hasn’t the heart to refuse her. 

“Sure,” he replies, surrendering.

“Sounds good,” a second voice says from somewhere behind Dan, and then Phil is next to him, still tapping at his phone, “I’ll take one of those too, please Lou.”

Dan’s eyes bore into the side of Phil’s face, but he doesn’t look up from his phone screen. He flicks a glance at Lou, who has her back turned to both of them, pouring measures of various liquids into a cocktail shaker.

“Good shower?” Dan asks; it comes out a bit more spiky than he means it to.

Phil’s mouth twitches, but he  _still_  doesn’t look up from his phone, the asshole. “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” Dan replies tightly, fingers drumming on the counter of the serving hatch. “You just focus on texting your doting husband back.”

Phil lowers his phone, turning to face Dan. He’s wearing that irritating, amused little smile again, the one that Dan could honestly punch him in the nose for. “You’re mad at me.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “When am I not?”

“Funny, considering I’m the one who’s been blue-balled twice today,” Phil points out, quite rightly. Dan pinkens, eyes darting to Louise, who mercifully is still way across the kitchen, out of earshot. “What exactly do  _you_  have to be annoyed about?”

“I- I’m just- we were in the middle of…” Dan watches Louise carefully, lowering his voice even further. “ _Stuff_. And you just…”

Louise begins walking over, two tall glasses in her hands, each containing a gradient of liquid in orange and red. She’s given them a paper straw each, a slice of orange, and even one of those little paper umbrellas.

“There we are boys, two tequila-” she breaks off, smile slipping. Her eyes are trained on Phil, who doesn’t seem to have noticed, too busy taking the drink from her, looking pleased.

He plucks out his umbrella so he doesn’t poke himself in the eye, then takes a long sip through the straw. “Unngh, delicious Lou. I didn’t know you could make cocktails.”

Dan watches Louise worriedly as he takes his own drink, heart pumping harder as her lips purse, her eyes harden. She’s seen something, Dan’s sure of it, and he dreads to think what kind of incriminating thing Phil has done to make her so-

And then, in an instant, Dan remembers. “Shit,” he whispers, without meaning to, and Louise turns the full force of her glare onto him.

Phil, totally oblivious beside him, turns back to his phone screen, beginning to back away. “Thanks. See you later, then.” 

Before he leaves, he aims a final smirk at Dan, then tucks the little lime green umbrella behind Dan’s ear, winking. Honestly, he could not have picked a worse moment to do something so uncharacteristically flirtatious. Dan winces, trying desperately to think of some excuse that Louise might buy, but the words evade him, as they always do. 

Nevertheless, he tries: “Before you say anything-”

“ _What_  was the purpling monstrosity on that married man’s neck, Daniel?!”

Dan cringes from her anger. “Um, he fell?”

“Neck-first? Onto your mouth?”

Dan blushes, sipping the drink just for some way to avoid her eye. “It’s not that bad,” he tries, shrugging as if he truly believes it, “it’s just a little hickey.”

“You really think I’m dumb, don’t you,” Louise scoffs, then leans through the serving hatch to smack him on the back of the head.

“Ow!” Dan shrieks, spluttering on a mouthful of tequila sunrise. “Lou, for Christ’s sake, I don’t think you’re dumb!”

“Then stop lying to me.”

“Okay, okay, jeez!”

Louise’s attention is momentarily pulled away, to somewhere beyond Dan, so he turns, meeting the shocked expressions of the Fitzgerald party, intently watching their squabble. Louise gives them a gap-toothed grin, then says, under her breath, “get in here now, Casanova.”

Reluctantly, Dan does as he’s told. He makes sure to take a large mouthful of the drink before stepping through the kitchen door, to prepare himself for Louise’s telling off. He stays near the door even so, poised to escape if she starts threatening violence.

“I don’t know what to tell you, okay?” Dan says in a quieter voice, “I don’t even understand what’s going on between us-”

“So there is something going on?” Louise presses, arms crossed over her chest.

Dan hesitates, sipping more drink, then nods. There’s no point in trying to hide it any longer, she’s too suspicious, and besides Dan’s going mad not being able to talk about it with anyone. Phil is utterly infuriating, and confusing, and so hot that Dan can’t think straight. He needs a confidante, and with his limited options, he’s happy to have Louise over Mona or Kaspar.

“Jesus, Dan,” Louise says, falling against a nearby counter. She removes her chef hat, fanning herself with it. “I’ll give you this - things have never been so exciting up here, and that’s entirely thanks to you.”

“You’re not mad?” Dan asks timidly, sucking delicious juicy tequila through his straw.

Louise turns to him, wide-eyed. “Oh, I’m furious. This is completely reckless, and incredibly dangerous - you’d be better off snogging a mountain lion, honestly. What are you  _thinking_?”

“I don’t think I am,” Dan admits, sipping, “thinking, that is. He makes me so… mad. We whip each other up into a frenzy and then it’s like all sense flies out the window.”

“Sounds... hot,” Louise says reluctantly, which makes Dan laugh.

“Well, yeah. But not very practical.”

Louise blows air upwards, seeming to actually consider Dan’s problem, for which he’s grateful. Perhaps honesty is all she needed to quell her fury over the subject. In an abrupt move, she pushes off the counter and goes to where she’d been preparing the cocktails, starting to pour more measures of ingredients.

“I need one of those, don’t judge me,” Louise says, not turning around, “and for God’s sake don’t tell Mona.”

“If I swear not to, can I have another one too?”

She laughs. “I’ll make a pitcher.”

Dan slurps the rest of his tequila sunrise down a bit too easily, and feels the rush of sugar and alcohol make him light-headed. He swirls the ice in the bottom of the glass with his straw, sighing. “God, I’m a dumbass, aren’t I?”

“Well yes,” Louise replies, then shakes the concoction for a bit in her extra large cocktail shaker, leaving Dan to chew on her concurrence, “but I mean, your actions aren’t completely incomprehensible, I suppose, given your position. I mean, there’s no denying he’s gorgeous. And rich. And he has that whole ‘ _I hate everyone - but not you!’_  thing going on.”

Dan nods miserably, holding his glass out when Louise reaches for it. “He seduced me,” Dan whines.

“Oh, no, don’t try playing the victim with me,” Louise admonishes, pouring out a vat of cocktail into a glass jug. “You’re not playing innocent in this, I’d imagine, or he’d have the sense to resist your skinny little bum.”

Dan frowns, mildly embarrassed, though the alcohol is working very well to combat it. “I don’t know what I’m, like, doing though.”

Louise’s expression turns sympathetic, and she pours more tequila sunrise into Dan’s empty glass, bringing it to him. She puts an arm around his shoulder for a brief moment, squeezing tight.

“Dan, if he were a single man, I’d be all for this,” she says, her voice gentle. “I know he’s a bitch sometimes, but I love that man like a son.” She pinches his cheek, a bit too roughly. “And you’re alright too, when you’re not moping.” This makes Dan smile, but it’s sad and half-hearted. He slurps his drink. “The two of you’d drive each other nuts, that’s pretty clear,” Louise says, “but it’d be exciting and passionate. And that can be the foundation of a good relationship.” 

“Y’know, he’s prob’ly gonna divorce Nikolai,” Dan tries, though it sounds pathetic even as he sounds it out.

Louise sighs, then goes to pour herself a drink. She only fills the glass halfway, presumably because she’s still got to make the guest’s dinner, and Mona’s likely buzzing about. 

“If you believe that, Dan, I’m happy for you,” Louise says. “But really, if you’re completely honest with yourself, do you actually think it’ll happen?”

“It’s not because of me,” Dan insists, feeling petulant. “He was unhappy anyway.”

Louise downs her half-glass of cocktail in one go, then quickly rinses out the evidence. “True, but Nikolai’s kept him this long, hasn’t he? I don’t know all the incentives of being married to a billionaire, but I’d imagine there’s a few reasons Phil hasn’t tried to break it off before.”

Dan wants to argue, to insist that Phil isn’t materialistic like that, that he wouldn’t stay with someone that makes him miserable for money or security. But honestly, Dan doesn’t know if that’s true. He barely knows Phil, even now, which just makes reflecting on their actions over the past few days even scarier. He’s gambling so much - his anonymity, his safety, Phil’s marriage, Phil’s reputation - on someone he doesn’t truly understand. Someone that half the time seems to not even want him around.

More tequila sunrise sucks up through the straw, blurring Dan’s anxious brain.

Louise brings him the jug of cocktail then, handing it to him with a sad smile. “I think you need to have an evening to yourself. Think about everything. This likely won’t help,” she says, gesturing to the jug, “but it might prompt some self-reflection. Just don’t tell-”

“Mona, I know,” Dan mumbles, already headed for the kitchen door.

“Actually,” Louise says, making him pause, “I was gonna say Phil.”

*

Three-quarters of a pitcher of tequila sunrise and an indeterminable amount of time later, Dan is laid flat on his bed, feeling quite drunk and very sorry for himself. His phone is doing a lousy job at providing a soundtrack with its crappy speaker; he wishes he had whatever Phil has going on in his room - some sort of fancy phone-controlled surround-sound contraption - to blast the new Li’l Peep & Fall Out Boy song that seems suspiciously appropriate for his situation, but he’ll just have to make do with what he’s got.

He picks up his phone to find he’s been called twice by his mother, and it only makes him feel even worse. He can’t phone her back now, drunk and miserable about the situation he’s so foolishly gotten himself into. How could he ever explain, to her, that he’s not only run away and fucked up his life, but also potentially now someone else’s? His mother should forget all about him really; she should just adopt Beth as a replacement daughter. Dan always had the strange impression that his mum liked her more somehow, found it easier to make polite smalltalk with her about the dinner and the sales at clothing stores than she found it to have a single conversation with Dan.

He rolls over onto his side, heart squeezing. There’s a knock at his door then, but he ignores it. He wants to be alone, to fall further into this black hole of melancholy and curl up there, possibly until he slips into blissful unconsciousness.

“Dan?”

The voice is coming from the other side of the door. Dan thinks he could probably place the voice if he concentrated, but he’s not interested in anything but his Twitter timeline right now. Even that isn’t loading properly due to the terrible hotel WiFi, which he guesses is his punishment for behaving like such a twit. Really, what has he been thinking, of late? Louise is so right to have called him out on his idiocy today.

Sleeping with a married man - it’s something he never dreamed he’d do, and here he is, willingly discarding all conscience with the excuse that Nikolai is ‘a bit of a dick’.

Suddenly, a message pings at the top of his phone. He manages to press it, blurry though it seems, and the chat box pops up.

**Unknown Number  
** Why aren’t you answering the door?

Dan frowns, mind whirring.

**Dan**  
Whoo is this s?

**Unknown Number**  
Seriously? Who else would it be?

**Dan**  
Phill?

There’s no reply for a few seconds, and then Dan’s phone starts to buzz. His eyes widen, alarmed, and then he realises he’s being rung. He manages, somehow, to answer, and jabs at the loudspeaker button because lifting the device to his ear requires a touch too much effort.

“What?” he says aloud.

“Dan, answer the door,” Phil’s voice says; if he listens hard, Dan can also hear him speaking out in the hall.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“How’d’you get my n’mber?”

“Front desk,” Phil replies, like it’s perfectly acceptable to just steal someone’s contact information from a database.

Dan snorts. “Stalker.”

“Why won’t you open the door?”

“B’ _cause_ ,” Dan stresses, frustrated. He rolls over, and the ceiling tilts, like a see-saw.

“Because…?”

“Can’t see you,” Dan sighs. “Dang’rous.”

There’s a quiet from the other end of the line. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Always,” Dan replies. “You can’t come in. We can’t see each’ther.”

“Are you... drunk?”

“Very.”

“Right, I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” Dan protests weakly, letting the phone drop to the bed. He hears, in the background, a noise like a door opening, and sighs, admitting defeat. He should have had the sense to lock it before he drank so much delicious cocktail. “Dick-face.”

“Ah,” Phil says; Dan rolls over very slowly, trying not to churn the contents of his stomach. Phil is stood at his chest of drawers, on top of which is the nearly empty jug of cocktail. There’s about a glass-full left inside. “Well, mystery of Dan’s inebriation solved.”

“There’s some left,” Dan says aloud, reaching out a hand for the jug, “gimme.”

Phil is smiling in an upside-down way. He lifts the jug to his mouth and drinks some, but somehow it doesn’t tip all over the floor. “God, that’s too nice. Tastes like fruit juice. Louise is a lethal barmaid, I need to remember that.”

Belatedly, Dan realises that the reason everything looks topsy-turvy, including the shape of Phil’s usually visually pleasing mouth, is because he’s laid on his back, staring at Phil the wrong way round. He sits up, too quickly, and squeezes his eyes shut as the room lurches with him, somersaulting forwards.

Seconds later, there’s a dip in the mattress to his left, and then a cool hand slides down his back. “Noo,” Dan says, swatting in the direction he knows Phil must be, eyes still closed. “You have t’go.”

“Why? Are you feeling sick?”

Dan heaves a dramatic sigh, letting his eyes flutter open at last. The room has gone from spinning to a gentle rocking, but oh no- Phil is way,  _way_  too close. He’s right here on the bed, thigh pressed against Dan’s, in those stupid silky pyjamas, and his glasses are on, and-

“Dan?”

“No!” Dan exclaims, shifting away from Phil. He almost falls off the bed entirely, but Phil catches hold of his arm. “Not sick. ‘m’fine. But we have t’stop.”

Phil’s amused expression creeps over his face. “Stop?”

“Stop… foolin’ around.”

The amusement melts away, leaving a guarded stare in its place. Phil lets go of his arm. “Oh. Why?”

Dan splutters; how can he even ask that question? “Because i’s wrong! You’re  _married_.”

“Yeah, I know that, Dan.”

“We’re cheating! We’re adulter-er-ers,” Dan wrinkles his nose - that didn’t come out quite right, but he thinks the point still came through. “Don’t you feel bad?”

Phil reaches up and removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you wanna get into bed, maybe?”

“Are you listenin’ t’me?!” Dan finds the nearest object he can - a stray pillow - and whacks Phil with it, feebly because his arms have gone noodly. “I’m sayin’ we can’t do th’t anymore-”

Phil wrestles the pillow off him, then whacks him right back. “I mean get into bed because you’re wasted, Dan. I’m not trying to seduce you.”

“Oh,” Dan mumbles, feeling his rapid breathing slow. A traitorous part of him aches in disappointment, but he squashes it down. 

Phil places the pillow back in its position at the top of the bed, neatly. He’s silent for a minute, and Dan wonders if he’s actually pissed him off. Then Phil says, “if I wanted to seduce you I’d just have to get on the floor and do a few push ups, work up a sweat-” 

And Dan lunges for the pillow, but Phil is too quick for him, and tackles him to the mattress before he can get to it. Dan groans - the force of Phil’s bodyweight barrelling into him when he’s already verging on queasy is not conducive to his slowly receding inebriation. The room spins again, and Phil leans up, propped on one elbow, laughing.

“Asshole,” Dan mutters, eyes slipping closed.

The darkness of his lids helps a little, mostly because seeing Phil so smiley and loose and happy is both disconcerting and totally wonderful. It’s best to just avoid looking altogether, so neither of the feelings can win out. Phil prods him in the stomach, disturbing what feels like a whirlpool of tequila and grenadine, and Dan tries to blindly smack him in the face - he’s unsuccessful.

“So, what happened?”

Dan frowns at the question. “What?”

“Between the last time I saw you and you drinking your bodyweight in hen-party special?”

He feels Phil moving around, rustling and jostling in a most irritating manner; when he opens an eye to see what the hell he’s doing, Phil is peeling back the covers of the bed, and plumping up the pillow. Something is stuck in Dan’s throat.

“Louise,” he sighs, giving in. He tosses an arm over his face so he won’t be able to see Phil’s reaction. “She saw your neck.”

“My neck? Oh.” He stops plumping. “Shit. I didn’t even think about it-”

“Yeah, well. She prob’ly would’ve found out anyway. She’s been like a bloodhound.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, so Dan lifts his arm, opens his eyes, then props himself up onto his elbows, studying Phil’s expression. He looks troubled but not angry, as Dan thought he might be. 

“Would you get in, please?”

Unsure and anxious in the aftermath of what he’s just said, Dan does as he’s told. He’s still in his jeans, so he unbuttons them quickly and shucks them off, throwing them aside without looking Phil in the eye. Then, he climbs into the space Phil has peeled back for him, and lets Phil pull the covers over his body.

“What did she say?” Phil asks once Dan’s tucked in. He dithers at the bedside, clearly not too sure of what to do himself.

“Said I was an idiot, basic’lly,” Dan admits. “That I’m in over my head with you and your sitch-ation, and I should stop b’fore I get in trouble.”

Phil lifts his head to meet Dan’s eye, something strange and curious caught in the dip of his inner eye. “And what did you say?”

The question seems to come out of nowhere, flicking Dan in the forehead. He blinks, trying to remember. “Uh. Not sure. Think I babbled a lot. I was kinda terrified.”

Phil’s mouth twitches. “She’s a scary lady when she wants to be.”

Dan lets the silence blanket them - he wants the attempt Phil made at light-heartedness to recede, because his next question is serious, and he needs a real answer. So, he waits, and then opens his mouth for the tequila to push the words out of his throat.

“Do you really not feel bad about wh’t we’re doing?”

Phil sighs, mussing up his hair with both hands. He walks around to the other side of the bed, and then - rather pointedly, Dan thinks - flops down onto it. His head turns, staring straight into Dan’s eyes. “No, I don’t.”

There’s such raw honesty in the glaze of Phil’s eyes; even through his drunken haze, Dan can tell he’s not lying. “How come?”

“Do you know how many reports there have been of Nikolai cheating on me in the last three months?”

Dan grimaces, tearing his eyes away. “So you’re gettin’ back at him? I di’n’t sign up t’be your  _ammu-nish-on_  in some emotional battle-”

“That’s not what you are,” Phil interrupts, suddenly stern. He takes a breath, catching himself, but the outburst is already hanging, pointed and tense, in the air between them. “I’m not in a battle with Nikolai. Nothing about what I’m doing with you feels like fighting. It feels like giving in.”

Dan turns, sluggish heart pumping faster. “Giving in t’what?”

A silence stretches, and Dan half wishes Phil wouldn’t answer at all. He shivers, suddenly feeling the cold of this room - he doesn’t think the radiator is on. Phil should get under the covers, he’s probably even colder.

“I’m not sure yet,” Phil says eventually, seeming to choose his words with care. “Does it feel… wrong to you, then?”

Dan hesitates, thinking of the ways Phil touches him, firm and desperate, but gentle too - reverent, even. Phil handles his body in a way nobody has ever dared to, taking note of the ‘fragile’ labels, but not being deterred by them, not afraid to peel them back to get at what’s underneath. He unfurls Dan methodically, without hesitation, seeming to know every place he wishes would be kissed, caressed, before Dan can show him. It’s utterly seductive, impossible not to crave. In a sense it feels wicked, to  _want_  something so selfish, so pleasurable, but that’s nothing to do with Phil. It’s more about Dan’s insecurity, the way he’s been taught not to indulge himself, or want things out of his reach. 

“No,” Dan decides, the word leaving his lips shakily. “It feels like…” his eyes fall closed, picturing Phil’s kiss against his jaw. Without meaning to, his head droops towards his shoulder, then further, until it’s resting on Phil’s. He yawns, suddenly exhausted.

“What does it feel like, Dan?” Phil whispers, sounding desperate again. “Tell me.”

“It feels like... I’ve found something… hidden. A secret thing, all fluttery and impossible. An’ I don’t want anyone else t’see.” Dan can feel, somehow, through the shifting of his muscles, that Phil is smiling, laughing at him - he’s not making enough sense. It’s not coming out how it should, his words aren’t doing a good enough job at describing. Dan huffs in frustration. “When you touch me,” he perseveres, fumbling in the dark, cobwebbed corners of his brain’s romance sector for appropriate adjectives, knowing they’ll never quite fit. “It feels like… for a moment, you’re all mine.”

Phil’s breath hitches, Dan can feel the stutter of his lungs. He’s still for a while, and then draws a deep breath, shifting Dan until they’re both under the covers, Phil’s arm across him, Dan’s back to his chest. 

“Hey,” Dan says, seconds away from slipping under. “Thought we said no spooning.” 

Phil laughs, lightly, breath tickling Dan’s ear. “I don’t think either of us are very good at keeping to our word.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Fifteen coming Next Friday at 8pm GMT!


	15. Chapter 15

In front of Dan, as he opens his eyes, is Phil’s phone screen. Phil is holding the device in the hand lazily draped over Dan’s left side, apparently peering at it over Dan’s shoulder. Dan’s about to make a pointed comment about their position, which could definitely be classed as spooning - and when exactly was it agreed that Phil would be the big spoon? - but his eyes focus unwittingly on the screen in front of him; Phil is texting Nikolai. Whilst spooning Dan. In Dan’s bed.

The idea is, for some reason, utterly nauseating. Phil obviously hasn’t realised Dan’s awake yet, or surely he’d move the phone out of Dan’s view. So Dan stays quiet, nostrils flaring as he reads the slew of messages coming through thick and fast, each one deepening Dan’s suspicion that Nikolai Novokoric is nothing more than a despicable, manipulative, pathetic little worm disguised as a man. 

 **Nikolai**  
I can fly you out tomorrow babe.

 **Nikolai**  
You know you have a soft spot for the   
Maldives apartment…

 **Phil**  
thanks but i think im fine here in the first  
hotel you stranded me in

 **Nikolai**  
this isnt like that

 **Nikolai**  
I’ll meet u in the Maldives.

 **Nikolai**  
I won’t strand you again. 

 **Phil**  
uh huh

 **Nikolai**  
I’ve been neglecting you, I know that.  
But it will change. You’re my priority i   
see that now.

 **Phil**  
do you not even care that you’re just  
spewing utter bullshit rn

 **Nikolai**  
You’re pissed at me, I get that. But really  
there’s no need to do something rash. We   
can work through this.

 **Phil**  
actually I think now is a great time to  
do something rash. I would have done  
it ages ago, but i think i just genuinely   
could not be bothered to try and get through  
all your agents and PA’s for an actual chance  
at a conversation 

 **Phil**  
difficult to break up with someone when they  
legit just pretend you dont exist yknow

 **Nikolai**  
I’ve been distant, I know that. I wish you   
would have just talked to me before   
making a public scene though. We could  
have worked this out privately.

 **Phil**  
How??? You don’t answer my calls! You  
only ever visit when u need to whisk me   
off for a photo op! I dont even think we’ve   
HAD a private conversation in over a year

 **Nikolai**  
Well that’s not true. What about in the hotel  
room? I seem to remember we were having   
some private... non verbal communication...

Dan’s stomach suddenly lurches.  _Hotel room? When?_ He has to fight to keep still in Phil’s arms lest he give his consciousness away.

 **Phil**  
Pfft. That fizzled out before it even started.

 **Nikolai**  
Come to the Maldives. I’m sure I could  
get it fizzling again…

The words are too much for Dan to remain still. He twitches, hard, and Phil snatches the phone back, obviously alarmed. “Dan?”

“Mm.”

“You’re awake.” Phil sighs; Dan can feel the breath wafting over his ear. “Did you read any of that?”

Dan thinks about lying, but he’s in a mood now, and there’d be no way to explain it away unless he thinks up some elaborate excuse about Phil murdering him in his dream. 

So, instead, he opens his mouth and lets his mouth form words without filtering them first: “Looks like you’ve got some packing to do. What’ll you take to the Maldives? Lacy suspenders? Might as well look the part if you’re gonna act like his whore.”

Phil’s arm retreats pretty quickly, though it’s more of a cautious movement than an angry one; it surprises Dan when Phil doesn’t fire back immediately with some heated rebuttal. Dan’s acid tongue can be a lot harsher than he intends if he’s really worked up - he just hadn’t thought he  _was_ that worked up until moments ago. It’s not like he has any real right to be. 

It’s just something about Nikolai, and especially Phil’s pushover attitude towards Nikolai makes him so  _mad_. He struggles into an upright position, trying to wriggle away from the situation, because he can feel himself stewing in it, making himself even angrier. He folds his arms over his chest, head pounding from last night’s genius tequila-sunrise-binge plan; he reaches for the glass of water on his bedside that Phil must have gotten for him at some point before they fell asleep in each others arms, cuddled up like a damn couple - which, as Nikolai’s lovely wake up texts have reminded Dan, they are decidedly  _not_.

“I’m not gonna go to the Maldives,” Phil says slowly. Dan can’t help but notice he waits until Dan’s downed the water to speak again, maybe because he wants to avoid being doused with a half pint of cold liquid this early in the morning. Dan has to begrudgingly admire his sensible decision, because as soon as the glass is drained, he wishes it were full again, just so he’d have the  _option_  of tipping it over Phil’s head.  Phil’s voice is mostly wary, not irritated or angry like Dan expects it to be. Dan’s steadfastly not looking at him, but he can sense Phil’s stare regardless, burrowing into his temple, making it throb even more. “He’s been doing this for days,” Phil attempts to explain, “trying to sweeten me with big promises of holidays and gifts. I’m not dumb, Dan. I know he’s just doing it to twist my arm, make me change my mind.”

Dan rolls his eyes, feeling cross and hot and uncomfortable, sandwiched between blankets and thick mattress toppers and duvets and sheets. Their combined body heat, spreading throughout the small bed, does not help Dan to feel any better. In the night, it was glorious - warm and soft and comforting. Now it’s stifling. He wants to get up, move as far away from Phil as possible, but he’s too aware of his lack of clothing. He doesn’t want to be so vulnerable in front of Phil right now, not when he’s this upset. 

“Then why are you even responding?” Dan asks, not bothering to conceal his contempt. “Every time you reply you’re just fuelling him more, don’t you see that? He knows he’s wearing you down!”

Phil makes a scoffing noise. “No, he’s not. I keep telling him it’s pointless to try and tempt me, didn’t you read what I said?”

“Yeah, and if you’re Nikolai, you read everything you’re saying as ‘nope, not good enough! Offer more fabulous incentives or no deal’,” Dan mimics, laying on a thick Northern accent for the hell of it because yeah - he’s pissed. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Phil tuts; Dan obviously struck a nerve with the voice - it makes him feel triumphant, which is only slightly soured by the residual guilt that follows. “I’m handling it how I think is best, given that I  _know_  him-”

“What happened with him in the ‘hotel room’?” Dan demands, whipping his head round to catch Phil’s eye at last. 

The question has been brewing on his tongue for a few minutes, but he wanted to wait to release it, to catch Phil off guard with it, watch every flicker of reaction cross his face. 

The first thing Dan notices, as he fully takes in the sight of Phil for the first time this morning, is that he is, for whatever reason, not wearing a shirt. Meaning Dan had, presumably, been pressed tightly against his naked chest, encased in his thick - totally bare - arms, all night long. Dan’s ribs do something odd and squeezy as he considers this, like the long curved bones are crunching inwards, lacing together like two sets of interlocking fingers. The second thing Dan notices it that Phil noticeably stiffens as soon as the question is out, eyes darting to the space beside Dan, nervous energy leaking out of his pores.  

“We… n-nothing.”

Dan gives him a withering look, then throws the covers off himself, having had enough. “You’re worse at lying than you are at remembering to cover up your hickeys, mate.”

“Look, ‘mate’,” Phil replies, using literal air quotes that Dan can’t quite blame him for, as he probably would have mocked the forced colloquialism too, “I don’t owe you an explanation about what me and my husband do in private-”

Half-in half-out of the bed, Dan turns around, furious. As he latches his glare onto Phil, he can see the flicker of regret behind chipped ice irises. But it’s too late, he’s already said the stupid thing, and now Dan is seriously mad. 

“Oh, sorry I forgot!” Dan cries, shrill and furious. “You’re Sir Dick-brain Knob-ulous the Third, and that entitles you to do whatever you fucking well want, doesn’t it?! You can just flit about in your crown and robes, fucking your husband and the staff and the bloody...  _Fitzgeralds_ or whoever, with no obligation to tell any of us about the others-”

“Nothing happened!” Phil insists, louder. Dan just rolls his eyes, the nauseous roll of his stomach returning, partly due to hangover, partly not. “It’s true, I’m not lying. Well, I mean, he kissed me, a bit, and tried to… y’know, but I didn’t let it go anywhere! Fuck’s sake I loathe the guy. You know that.”

Dan’s breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he tries to fight the urge to whack Phil with his pillow. “When?”

“What?”

“ _When_ did he kiss you? When he came up here to find you? In your room?”

If it was then, as Dan strongly suspects it must be, then that would make this little dalliance _after_  Phil had kissed Dan. After he’d  _jerked off_  in front of Dan. Drunken and ill-advised though all of that may have been, it was still the start of... whatever this is between them, this thing that’s founded on their mutual agreement that Nikolai is a massive shit-head. So the idea that Phil might have subsequently snogged the very man he’d been bad-mouthing to Dan - as he peppered in the trifling point that he found Dan, apparently, so attractive it was almost unbearable - it’s not just nauseating anymore. It’s fucking  _disrespectful,_ though Dan hates himself for thinking it.  

The cavernous line between Phil’s dark brows deepens. “No,” he says, throwing Dan off. For the most fleeting of seconds, Dan wonders if he might have it all wrong, that Phil is actually not a huge dick-brain, and he really is capable of understanding that Nikolai is a huge tool and should be booted firmly out of both their lives forever. And then he says: “It was just before the charity event thing.” Dan’s lungs tear themselves into shreds as he attempts to hold in a scream of frustration. “We were in our hotel room - some fancy Italian suite - right after the tux fitting. I don’t know why he chose then to… It was probably all planned somehow. Get me loved-up and loose before being put in front of cameras. Who knows.”

Dan wrinkles his nose, badly not wanting to picture or even remotely consider any part of Nikolai’s attempt at ‘loosening’ Phil, but finding that he simply  _has_  to know, or else he will inevitably drive himself insane, speculating. When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth. 

“What. Happened.”

Phil hesitates, probably considering telling Dan it’s none of his business, as he would have every right to do, but Dan holds his eye, and Phil seems to melt, though God knows why. He’s never usually this susceptible to Dan’s will - if he were, their prior arguments would have been a lot shorter and less frustrating. 

“The tailor left, and he just… kissed me,” Phil says, eyebrows drawing towards one another, as if searching for comfort. He picks at a loose thread in the blanket. “I didn’t see it coming, ‘cause I’d been pissed at him the whole day, as you saw before we left. He told me…” Phil pauses, eyes flicking up to Dan’s, gauging his reaction, “he told me he’d missed me.” From the flush that suddenly appears on Phil’s cheeks, Dan gathers that Nikolai’s phrasing had been a little less savoury than this. “He wanted to… do stuff, and I said no, pushed him off because I was angry and upset with him. I think, honestly, that’s why I said all that stuff on stage at the event later on. He just made me feel so  _cheap_. Like all I was there for was to fuck him and make him look good in front of the journalists and charity execs.”

Phil sighs, raking fingers through his hair; watching him play with that gorgeous mop, remembering how it feels between his fingers, Dan can hear some of the ice around his heart splintering. There’s a dejected twinge in Phil’s voice, making him sound hurt and pathetic; but Dan’s still annoyed, can’t just switch it off like a tap. Phil isn’t a little boy, after all. He’s older than Dan for fuck’s sake, and Dan is sure he would know better, if he were in Phil’s shoes, than to even indulge the merest hint of Nikolai’s hopes for an amicable resolution to the years of emotional neglect and abuse he’s put Phil through. He gets up, thoughts pounding silently through his aching head, and begins his usual messy morning routine of finding vaguely suitable clothes to wear.

After a while of just watching, Phil speaks. “Would it make you angry, if I’d slept with him?”

Dan slams his underwear drawer closed, heart squeezing. “What makes me angry is you pointlessly drawing this situation out because you’re too scared to finalise things!”

Phil’s mouth falls open, affronted. “I’m not-”

“Yes, Phil, you are,” Dan cuts in, blood still blazing through him in rapid pulses as he pulls yesterday’s shirt off and throws it to the floor. “You’re always saying I’m some huge coward for being a shit-scared flyer and skiier, but you’re the one who’s slowly crawling right back into your abusive husband’s arms because you can’t stomach the idea of not knowing what lies outside the prison cell he’s locked you in.”

“I’m just being careful!” Phil argues, hands flying up in emphasis. “I can’t afford to act without thinking like you can - dropping everything and running off to live up a mountain - I already did something  _insanely_  stupid at that charity event, and it could have cost me everything!” Phil is angry now, Dan can see it rising in him, surging up like a huge electrified fence, ready to deflect anything Dan throws back with a jarring, sparking retort. “I’m trying to work out a way I can get out of this unscathed- to avoid some enormous public scandal and watch him obliterate me in a legal battle.”

Dan tuts, rifling for a shirt. “Coward.”

“I’m holding my ground, Dan,” Phil snaps, throwing the covers off his own legs now. “I’ve maintained to Nik the whole time that I want to end it.”

Dan just snorts with laughter at the word ‘Nik’, which proves in itself that Phil is not detached enough from this relationship to truly mean what he’s saying. Dan reaches in further to the drawer, finding a decent shirt at last. “Phil, if you  _actually_  got up the balls to call Nikolai up and say ‘stop contacting me, I’m not interested in your hollow promises, you’ve mistreated me for three years and I want out, end of’, I’d-” Dan flounders, scrambling for something absurd. “I’d let you bend me over and fuck me senseless on the first surface you saw,  _mate_. But as it’s absolutely never gonna fucking happen, you might as well jump aboard Susan and jet off to the Maldives for some probably very disappointing and selfish sex with a Royal sociopath.”

Dan slams the drawer closed, barely noticing that Phil has gone completely still, halfway out of the bed, and is now staring at Dan like he’s grown a third hand from the centre of his chest. It makes him pause very slightly, because he’s fully expecting a scathing retort in the wake of everything he just said, but Phil appears to be, perhaps for the first time Dan can remember, absolutely speechless.

Whatever the reason for the sudden lack of verbalisation, Dan hasn’t got time for it. He rolls his eyes at Phil’s dumbstruck expression, gathers up the bundle of clothing garments he’s pulled out, and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He switches on the shower and jumps in straight away despite it being still freezing. He scrubs the loofah so vigorously over his naked skin that he leaves some angry red patches, but it’s quite therapeutic in a fucked up sort of way, so he doesn’t really mind. He gets out, brushes his teeth, applies deodorant, pees, and dresses. When he emerges, rumpled, damp but clothed, Phil is gone.

*

A frustrating and unresolved argument is not how Dan prefers to begin his days, but as Phil is too either too stubborn or too chicken to see their disagreement through to its conclusion, Dan supposes he has no choice. He’s focusing hard as he carries three plates of breakfast to the Fitzgeralds’ table; they’re serving breakfast inside today, in the mezzanine lounge, as there’s a sleet storm outside - and isn’t that just terribly fitting for Dan’s foul mood.

The Fitzgeralds have ordered three entirely different breakfasts, which is of course allowed, but anyone with a basic sense of decorum might take pity on poor Louise having to make each separate dish and have it all come out at the same time without any help.

“French toast?” Dan asks, placing it down a little carelessly in front of the blue-streak haired teenager when she raises a meek hand. A few of the berries balanced on the stack roll off onto the table. “Sorry,” Dan says tiredly, not really meaning it. “Bacon sandwich?”

Mr Fitzgerald grins. “Right here, lad.” He takes the plate from Dan eagerly, setting it down in front of him. “The gruel is for the missus,” he chortles, “she’s on one of her doomed diets again. Women, am I right?”

Oh, lovely. It seems that everyone is determined to piss Dan off today. He places the fruit and granola parfait in front of Mrs Fitzgerald without so much as his usual placating smile, trying desperately to hold his tongue. 

“Will there be-” he stops short as he sees, out of the corner of his eye, Phil emerging from the stairwell and walking casually into the midst of the makeshift breakfast area dressed in his ski wear, the thick jacket slung over his arm. To Dan’s dismay, he heads straight for one of the empty tables and sits down, avoiding Dan’s eye. “Err,” Dan continues, distractedly, “sorry, would there- would there be anything else?”

He turns back to the Fitzgeralds, glancing down at their mugs to assess the drinks situation. He’s inevitably going to have to make coffee anyway for the newest - and most infuriating - member of the breakfast club.

“Hey, do you know him?” Mrs Fitzgerald whispers conspiratorially, a few wisps of her dry hair falling into her yoghurt bowl as she leans towards him. She’s obviously referring to Phil, but she still jabs a plump finger in that direction, as if Dan were unsure. “The famous feller?”

Caught in the cross hairs of three round-eyed stares, Dan’s not sure what to say. Instantly, he feels protective barriers lurching up, and it’s incredibly annoying to realise that this is his instinctive reaction, because he’s fucking angry with Phil. He doesn’t want to have to protect him right now.

 “Mr Novokoric’s a guest here,” Dan replies, keeping it short and snippy, “and I work here, so... yes, on a professional level, I know him. Will there be anything else?”

“You know what you could get for a story ‘bout him right now?” Mrs Fitzgerald’s burnt chestnut eyes are gleaming in an unsettling way. There’s definite yoghurt on the ends of her hair now, which is only slight consolation for the awful thing Dan’s pretty sure she’s suggesting. “Nobody back home’s got a clue where he’s run off to. ‘til now no one really gave two hoots, but after that fit he threw at that event the other day people can’t stop talking about the lad! Can they, Craig?”

“Too right,” Mr Fitzgerald agrees, mouth freely open to expose the bacon he’s masticating, “If you know anything juicy, why not earn yourself a bit o’ dosh lad?” His hyena-grin, barely concealing the half-chewed bacon butty, only serves to unnerve Dan even more. Opposite him, the blue-haired girl silently toys with her food, eyes down. “Lord knows you won’t be gettin’ much of a tip from him, eh? Stingy bastards, those Royal-types, the lotta them.”

Mrs Fitzgerald grins too, obviously sure she’s caught Dan’s attention; what she doesn’t seem to pick up on, is Dan’s growing contempt and disgust for both her and her vile husband. “We know a couple of journalists,” she says with a wink, “if you want their numbers-”

“No. Thanks.” Dan makes sure to load his voice with the sub-zero coolness coursing through his icy veins so that he won’t need to spell it out for these morons with non-concierge-esque vocabulary, and get himself fired. “I’m not interested. We’d encourage you to respect the privacy of other guests. Perhaps consider what it’s like to be forcibly in the spotlight.”

“Well, it’s not like he didn’t choose it!” Mr Fitzgerald retorts, then chuckles. “He didn’t have to run off an’ have some  _gay love affair_ with a foreign posh boy-”

“Dad,” the girl interrupts, teeth clenched. She drops her fork to her plate, glaring at him. “Shut up, will you? You’re so embarrassing.”

“I’m just messin’ about,” Mr Fitzgerald replies, gruffly; he and his wife exchange eye rolls. “He doesn’t mind it, do you lad?”

“I should serve the other guests,” Dan says tartly, avoiding his eye. He glances briefly at blue-hair, who is radiating apologies at him on behalf of her parents. Dan doesn’t entirely trust that she’s any different from them just yet, but if she is, he certainly does not envy her. How many offensive things had Mr Fitzgerald managed to cram into that short exchange? Too many to count. And this girl has presumably had to endure him for fourteen-ish years. “Enjoy your meal,” Dan says through gritted teeth. 

It’s perhaps with a little more violent panache than usual that Dan stalks into the kitchen to make a stupid fucking macchiato for an ungrateful wanker who he still somehow has a need to defend from even wankier people. The macchiato comes out more foam than espresso in the end, but at least he remembered the stupid fucking caramel for stupid fucking Phil’s stupid fucking sweet tooth.

He slams the macchiato down in front of Phil without a word, then waits at the side of the table, daring him to bring up some problem or other with it because that’s just the sort of thing he’d do to piss Dan off even more.

“Thanks,” Phil says, suspiciously coolly, then takes hold of the mug and lifts it to his lips. He gets foam on his top lip as he takes a sip, which he then slowly licks off. “Mmm. Almost passable today.”

His phone is noticeably absent, considering it’s been glued to his hand for the past twenty-four hours. “Anything else?” Dan asks; by this point, he’s almost sure his teeth have been ground into points. 

Phil aims him a serene smile. “That’s all for now, thanks.”

Just as Dan’s considering accidentally-on-purpose knocking that mug out of Phil’s hands and spilling hot coffee all over his lap, if only to see the total annihilation of that fake smile, Phil reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. He holds Dan’s eye as he unlocks it, making a show of opening his chat with Nikolai. Any attempt at a responding glare is pointless, because Phil is of course immediately absorbed in his text conversation, as ever. Dan turns on his heel, fuming, ready to go and vent to Louise and possibly break something shiny, when he hears Phil speak.

“Nikolai? It’s Phil.”

Dan doesn’t bother to be discreet about spinning right around again to stare. He notices a hush fall over the dining area as the Fitzgeralds obviously pick up on the scent of something noteworthy happening with their favourite celebrity guest.

“Just calling to say,” Phil says in a relaxed, breezy voice, then clears his throat, “stop contacting me, I’m not interested in your hollow promises, you’ve mistreated me for three years and I want out, end of. Alright, bye then!”

He hangs up, places the phone neatly on the table in front of him, then reaches for his macchiato and takes another calm sip. Dan’s mouth falls open. He feels the blood in his face seeping out, leaving him dizzy. The  _phrasing_ … he’d gotten it right to Dan’s every  _inflection_ , the absolute-

Heart suddenly lurching half out of his chest, Dan marches straight back to Phil’s table, leaning both hands onto the wood in order to lean in and speak in a voice that won’t be overheard. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Fitzgeralds had busted out their phone cameras by this point, but there is nothing that could stop him from confronting Philip Novokoric for being such a total, total wanker-

“What the  _fuck_  was that?!” Dan hisses, trying to keep a neutral expression despite his the fact his organs are violently clamouring against each other, grappling for one consistent emotion to hold on to. “You can’t just- just- I wasn’t meaning  _literally_ -”

“Are you alright, Dan? You look a bit flustered,” Phil says around a positively choke-able smirk, both hands still wrapped around his mug.

“I have  _thirteen hours_  left of my shift you  _fucking asshole_ ,” Dan hisses, already vexed by the thought of having to endure this length of time, pretending that the world didn’t just flip over with one stupid little phrase uttered by the world’s most unfortunately attractive dick-brain. “What do you expect me to do?”

Phil leans back in his seat, legs spread just a little wider than is necessary for mere comfort. Dan closes his eyes. “Shame,” Phil says, draining the last of his coffee, “guess I’ll have to amuse myself until you’re...” unsubtly, Phil drags his cornflower gaze up and down Dan’s body, “free to keep your word.” 

He winks, very briefly, then leans forwards into Dan’s space. For a moment, Dan blanches, thinking Phil is about to do something even  _more_  insane like actually  _kiss_  him, but then he’s pressing the empty coffee mug into Dan’s hands, letting his fingers drag over Dan’s for what seems like an obscene length of time, but is really probably only a second or two. 

The things the ‘innocent’ touch does to Dan are downright unseemly, particularly as he’s well aware they’re being watched not only by the Fitzgeralds, but also Louise and Mona, who are now, Dan notices, conversing in hushed, agitated voices through the serving hatch a few yards away. Phil stands up then, grabbing his ski jacket from the back of the chair and heading for the lobby stairs. Trembling with what could just as easily be anger as raw, desperate  _want,_  Dan watches him go. His fingers curl around the still-warm mug.

“Dan,” Mona calls in her manager-voice from somewhere behind him. He closes his eyes, wishing he could just have a few moments to collect himself before- “Dan, could you come here please?”

Stiffly, Dan turns and walks to where Mona stands, registering the look of quiet alarm on her face. Louise wears a similar expression, except hers is a lot more accusatory.

“Everything... ok?” Dan squeaks.

“Would you mind telling me- do you know anything about Mr Novokoric’s sudden public decision to-” Mona breaks off, exchanging a helpless look with Louise. “Dan, tell me what on earth is going on.”

Dan shrugs, cheeks pinkening as he sees, in the corner of his eye, Louise’s glare darkening, fixed on him. “I don’t know, Mona. I guess he… had a sudden burst of- of-”

“Spunk?” Louise supplies; Dan almost drops the mug in his haste to  _not_  look her way. Mona must give Louise an odd look, because Louise then says, “what? It’s slang. Pluck. Nerve. Backbone.”

Shaking her head dismissively at this, Mona turns back to Dan, fixing him with that same concerned frown. “You have no idea what brought that burst of... ‘pluck’ on, I take it?”

Dan worries his lower lip between his teeth; Louise’s stare feels damned alive. He imagines he can feel it worming under his skin. “Nope,” he lies. A little crawly caterpillar worm, inching its way between his muscles and nerves, ready to pluck out each one and expose him for the dirty scoundrel he is. “Oh look! The Huangs are here for breakfast, I’d better just…”

He edges away quickly, accosting the poor Huangs before they even sit down. “Hello!” he near-shrieks at them, and they both give him startled, half-awake looks the poor things. “The breakfast special today is fruit granola parfait. Shall I get you some coffees to start?”

They lean away from him, obviously unsettled, and reach for their menus. Dan sighs, digging out his notepad. This is going to be the longest day of his life. 

*

Phil doesn’t come back until well after lunch time. Dan knows this because he is sat at the front desk when Phil strolls into the lobby, skis under one arm, flushed from the cold and sleet and looking far too pleased with himself. Dan tries not to pay him any attention, instead staring at his phone screen, but Phil approaches the desk, fingers tapping on the counter.

“Could I get some assistance, please?”

“No,” Dan replies, not looking up, “I can’t even look at you right now or I will explode. Go away. I have eight hours left.”

Dan can feel Phil’s smug smile from across the desk; it’s infuriating. “Eight hours until…?”

Dan looks up from his phone long enough to glare. It’s a huge mistake. Phil is maddeningly attractive when he’s all bright-eyed and dishevelled from the exertion of ploughing down various slopes and hills. His white teeth sparkle as he flashes them in a knowing grin. Dan’s stomach clenches, flips, and sinks as he remembers how long he has to wait before he can do anything about the searing slash of arousal that propels itself through his whole body.

The thought of what might happen, later, when his shift is up at last, is too overwhelming to properly entertain. Instead, Dan is choosing to keep his brain occupied however he can - music, chores, cleaning, or simply cycling through the same five badly-loading apps on his phone. It’s been working, more or less, but it certainly won’t work if Phil insists on standing five feet away from him, looking like  _that_  and prodding at Dan’s already fragile sense of self-preservation.

“Don’t,” Dan hisses, glaring again, but he can already feel his jeans growing tighter. He shifts in his chair. “Can’t you just go and hide for a while? I’m actually going to go insane.”

“Actually I thought I might take a dip in the jacuzzi,” Phil says, leaning the skis against the desk in order to stretch his arms high, “had a pretty… strenuous workout in the gym yesterday.” He cocks an eyebrow, and Dan mouths something indecent at him. Phil just smiles serenely. “So, would you mind bringing me out an iced macchiato in about… hmm, half an hour?”

“I hate you.”

“Thanks ever so.”

He pushes off from the desk and heads for the stairs, leaving the skis behind - presumably for Dan to put away. Dan barely even minds. At least it gives him something to do besides staring at Phil’s ass as he walks away. ...Which he does anyway. 

*

Phil stays in the hot tub so long that Dan ends up bringing him three drinks: the first two are iced coffees with various embellishments - chocolate syrup, whipped cream, oat milk - and the third is a whiskey on the rocks. This third time Dan goes out to him, whiskey in hand, Phil’s in the sauna.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel, his wet swimming trunks on the bench beside him “to dry”.

“You look like you could use a break,” Phil says when Dan hands him the drink - or more like shoves it into his hand. He’s had to enter the damn sauna in full work clothes, and it’s not helping with his existing feelings of hot-and-bothered frustration. “Stay here for five minutes.”

Dan glares at him, already feeling his forehead begin to moisten in the humidity. He tries, and fails, not to drop his eyes to the obvious spread of Phil’s legs, just enough to pull teasingly at the knot of his towel, but not enough to actually undo it. 

“I  _can’t_ ,” Dan replies, meaning it to sound frosty and annoyed, but he’s pretty sure it just comes out sounding whiny. “I’m  _working_.”

“Mona won’t miss you for five minutes,” Phil says. His voice has dipped into that crushed velvet version of itself that has Dan shivering, despite the intense warmth. Phil places the glass down on the bench, even though the ice will surely melt, and reaches for Dan’s hand. “Come on,” he says, all enticing and damp with his sly grin and the bead of sweat trickling down his neck and- “just for a bit.”

Resistance melting as quick as the ice cubes in Phil’s drink under the thick heat and the searing, blazing flame of desire in his gut, Dan lets Phil pull him in, and falls, clumsily, into his towelled lap. The skin of Phil’s torso is hot, sticking to Dan where he touches it, which he cannot help himself doing, immediately and repeatedly. He grips Phil’s chin between his fingers and stares him in the eye before leaning in to press their mouths together.

“Did you mean it?” Dan asks, after a while against soft, warm, plump lips.

Phil’s hands brush over Dan’s shirt sleeves, leaving damp patches in their wake. “Mean what?”

“You’re... you’re really gonna leave him?”

Phil pauses, leaning back to look Dan in the face. He’s flushed and excited, his pupils wide and dark. “Yeah,” he says, fingers tightening around Dan’s upper arms, “I meant it. I don’t want him, remember?”

“No,” Dan says, stupidly, because he’s not thinking of past conversations, is not even sure that he could. 

Luckily, Phil just smiles, pushing a damp, humidity sprung curl from Dan’s forehead. He leans in, lips skimming the shell of Dan’s ear. “I want you.” 

An intense, dizzying rush of blood streams from Dan’s brain, down to his stomach and further, until it’s pooled in his groin. “Oh,” he says as Phil’s lips drag over his pulse, as teeth nip at the base of his neck. “So... what I said this morning…”

“Mmm?” He’s licking along Dan’s throat now, long stripes, just as Dan remembers from the plane, when he’d knelt between Dan’s thighs like he fit there. 

“Does what I said- what I said you could do with me- have anything to do with you calling Nikolai today?”

Phil stops licking abruptly; he sits back, looking genuinely startled. “You think... God, Dan, no. I mean... sure, it was a fantastic way to kick me up the bum and make me actually, y’know,  _end it. Properly._ But no, it’s not the  _reason._ ” He smiles again then, possibly at something he sees on Dan’s face, or possibly at something entirely different, that Dan isn’t privy to, inside his own mad, infuriatingly guarded and brilliant mind. “It is a damn good reward though,” he adds, velvet again. 

Dan shifts in Phil’s lap, unbearably aroused already, but trying to quell it, to avoid discussing it openly, lest he go mad in the last third-or-so of his shift. “So that- that’s something you want to do, then?”

Phil’s eyes flutter closed, and he breathes a difficult sigh, half through his nose. “I don’t think there’s anything I could possibly want more,” he replies, voice gravelly and rough. Mostly because he’s suddenly so aroused he can’t control his own actions, Dan leans in, heart skipping every other beat, and kisses every available inch of Phil’s stupidly beautiful face.

Voices, from outside the sauna, are slowly audible, growing louder. They’re distant enough yet that Dan doesn’t outright panic, but he still extricates himself from Phil promptly, despite Phil’s complaints, clambering off his lap and attempting to smooth over his ragged appearance. He nods to Phil, the lock of their eyes stringing, between them, anticipation of ‘later’ - whenever that might eventually be.

“See you, um, later, then,” Dan says, already backing towards the sauna door. He runs his gaze quickly over Phil’s bare torso, trying to burn the image into his retinas to keep him going through the next few hours.

“Yeah,” Phil replies, reaching a shaky hand for his glass of whiskey, which by this point is probably as warm as the jacuzzi water outside, “later.”

Dan ducks out of the sauna, moist and secretive; of course, the Fitzgeralds - minus their more tolerable daughter - are in the hot tub, watching him with obvious interest.

“Warming up for a spell?” Mr Fitzgerald asks, then chortles, looking to his wife to join him, which she does, somewhat snarkily. “Not surprised you’re getting cold. Weedy little thing like you.”

Dan knows the soft jibe is being aimed his way because of their earlier discussion, where he’d undoubtedly pissed them both off for being gossipy old bitches, but he can’t afford to let them speculate on why else, apart from cold, he might be sneaking out of the sauna in his clothes.

“Hah, yeah, I’m, uh, a skinny legend,” Dan replies; they don’t laugh. Dan has no idea why he thought they would. He barely even understands that meme himself, given that Tumblr only loads sporadically up here, so he has to glean every meme second-hand through Facebook screenshots of Tumblr posts. Praying that Phil doesn’t emerge from the sauna for another hour or more, and that the Fitzgeralds decide to avoid getting dried off before heading back into the hotel, Dan scarpers. “Enjoy your jacuzzi...ing!”

*

It’s nine-fifty-eight, and Dan’s watching the clock. He’s sat in the mezzanine lounge, at the back of the group of guests huddled together on sofas and beanbags, watching  _Reservoir Dogs_. Mona is beside him, Louise the other side; they’re sat on an old trunk they use to store jigsaw puzzles and extra sets of dice and cards for the various board games.

Louise has been ever-so-subtly digging the kitten heel of her boot into Dan’s toes for the majority of the movie, but Dan has been feigning rapturous interest in the narrative, despite the fact he could not, under pain of death, tell you a single thing that’s happened. If he acknowledged Louise’s obvious beg for his attention, she’d probably mime for them to excuse themselves for a minute so that she can appropriately wring him for information about Phil and his dramatic phone call earlier, but for obvious reasons, Dan’s not too keen on that idea. So, he remains stoically focused on the screen ahead - which actually means that he’s staring at the clock, just to the left of it. A sudden ripple of laughter echoes around the room, perplexing Dan totally, but he titters nonetheless, not wanting to be caught out.

He quickly refocuses on the clock - nine-fifty-nine - and then Mona taps him on the shoulder. She’s smirking at him, nodding towards the clock. 

“Keen for an early night?”

Dan could  _kiss_  her. Instead, he fakes the least convincing yawn in the world. Louise’s foot grinds into his toes. “Actually, yeah,” Dan says gratefully, ignoring the agony of his toe-bones being pumiced to dust. “Would you mind..?”

“I’ll lock up,” Mona assures him with an oblivious smile. “Off you go.”

He stands quickly, expertly dodging Louise’s quick grab for his arm, and hurries off towards the mezzanine stairs with a garbled, “goodnight”.

*

Phil’s door is ajar.

This, in itself, is coming to be somewhat commonplace. What is not commonplace, however, is the note taped to it.

##  _In the shower…_

It’s perfectly disguised, as a note, Dan thinks, up on the balls of his feet in the corridor, reading it over and over. It could so easily just be a warning to someone, anyone, that came by looking for him, that he’s naked in the shower, and not to stroll into the bathroom unannounced. But there’s little doubt in Dan’s mind that this note is for him and only him - the disguise is just on the off-chance someone saw who wasn’t him.

What the note really says, hidden betwixt the unhurried, fluid lines of Phil’s script - not messy, because God knows he had Royalty handwriting training too, but free and lazy - is  _‘I’m in the shower... come in and find me’_. Dan is at once utterly terrified, and the most excited he’s ever been in his life. He takes a deep, scratchy breath in, plucks the note off the door, and pushes it open. Once inside the room, he clicks the door softly closed behind him.

A soft, low singing is coming from the bathroom, above the sizzling noise of water hitting flesh and tile. Dan creeps towards the sound, eyes tracking to the unmade bed. His hand skims the exposed sheet as he walks past, wondering if he’ll end up in it tonight, and what that might entail. 

Although Dan can’t make out words, or a real melody, Phil’s voice is calm, pure, and almost haunting as it reverberates around the bathroom and seeps out with the escaping steam. Dan feels his breaths begin to pull longer, his heart skipping and stuttering. Steam pours from the bathroom, spilling in huge clouds to the room outside - Phil’s evidently been in there a while, waiting for him - so Dan has to wander through the haze, as if he were blindly feeling his way through a fog.

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, steam closing in from all sides, seeping gently into his clothes, making them stick to his skin, it feels bizarre to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt and thick, tight jeans. So Dan takes them off, quiet and unhurried, one button at a time. He can feel the  _thump-thump-thump_  of his frantic heartbeat as his fingers skim over his chest, peeling back lapels. The hairs on his thighs are taut and upright as he slides his jeans down them, bristled by goosebumps despite the humidity.

He toes off his shoes and socks, then takes a deep breath, focusing on the rich, deep vibrato of Phil’s singing voice behind the opaque window of shower glass, and slides his underwear down his thighs. Dan notes, in the way he might note an open window in a guest’s bedroom, or a missing chair in the mezzanine, that he’s already half hard, just from the anticipation. It’s not that he doesn’t feel the arousal, but he’s far too focused on the other person in this room to truly feel it. It’s all Dan can do not to think ahead, to take everything second by second, methodical movement by methodical movement, so as not to project too far into what  _might_ happen, and ruin everything.

It seems to Dan that ahead lies a ‘Shrodingers Shower’ - limitless possibilities, most of them too surreal, too totally, excruciatingly amazing to properly contemplate without his universe folding in on itself. So, instead of wasting time thinking, like he always does, too often, Dan - now naked - moves to the edge of the shower, pushes against the glass door, and steps in.

If Phil notices, he doesn’t turn; in the small space of the shower, his voice echoes dreamily, so that Dan is drowning in unsteady, but somehow hypnotic melody. Along with the thick steam and sweltering heat, Dan feels drunk as he pulls the door closed, and takes in the sight of Phil’s bare back, curving lithely down into a tight, firm bum, sat atop long, muscular legs.

“Who faces the shower head, you psychopath?” Dan asks, though his voice comes out weak and tinny, probably because he’s never seen anything so alluring in his whole life than Phil’s naked behind, and that’s just, well, the  _behind_. “Anyone could just come in… and- and attack you.”

Phil’s singing meanders off into a hum, and then slowly he turns, like he’s putting on a show, which God knows he probably is. If Dan looked anywhere near as magnificent as Phil does when naked and wet, he’d show off his goods every chance he got. He’s smiling indulgently at Dan, not that Dan has any hope of keeping his eyes on Phil’s face when he’s  _naked_  for Christ’s sake.

“Oh? You’re going to attack me?”

 _Yes_ , Dan wants to shout - probably would shout, if he were a tiny bit braver, or had one of those delicious tequila sunrises in him again.  _Yes, I’m going to attack you, I’m going to drag my teeth over your sweet, wet skin, let my tongue drag over your chest to feel your pounding heart and then kiss my way down, leave bruises on your hip bones and-_

“Well you make it so easy,” Dan says, interrupting his own rapid thoughts because he just cannot let his mind jump ahead of himself. It’s too much. “Are you in the habit of leaving notes for potential attackers, as well? Notes detailing your exact location?”

Phil’s eyes drag down Dan’s body, about as subtle as a goddamn gun going off, and Dan feels every moment of the stare like Phil was using his damn tongue. A flush tracks over Dan’s skin with Phil’s eyes, but hopefully Phil will just think it’s the warmth of the shower. Phil hums in what Dan can only attribute to ‘approval’, which is as embarrassing as it is mind-numbingly hot.

“Maybe it’s a trap,” Phil says, blasé, tilting his face up to the shower stream and letting rivulets of water pour over his features, spilling over the slope of his perfectly engineered nose, then falling from his plush lips. When he refocuses on Dan, Dan’s half sure he looks like he’s been winded. It would certainly account for Phil’s thoroughly amused smile. “Maybe it’s you who’s in danger.”

“Gonna attack me, are you?” Dan croaks out, palms flattening against the glass wall at his back.

He can hardly stand this - the build up, the elastic tension coiling so tantalisingly between them, winding tighter and tighter until Phil decides to snap it. Phil can damn well see how turned on he is - Dan’s way past any attempt at  hiding it. Phil’s hard too, Dan hasn’t missed that, but he seems far more in control of himself, far too happy to spend these precious minutes teasing and flirting at Dan until he’s mush. Dan bites his lip, waiting, in agony, for Phil to reply, to snip the taut rubber band so that he can finally touch, kiss,  _anything_.

Phil’s mouth twitches, like he can hear every damn word of this whirling through Dan’s lust-addled head. He steps out of the spray, leaning up against the opposite wall to Dan, and fixes him with a deep, cerulean-glossed stare. “With your consent, I might just.”

 _Consent_?! Dan cannot believe that’s what the hold up is here. He resists the urge to shake Phil by his dumb, broad, muscled shoulders-  _Godhe’ssoattractive_ , and says, “for fuck’s sake, get on with it. Attack away.”

Thankfully, Phil does not apparently need telling twice. He steps easily across the few feet of space between them, through the steady stream of water, making him deliciously warm and damp when he finally presses himself against Dan, kissing him soundly against the glass. Dan breaks apart at once, hands coming up to scrape through Phil’s silky, conditioned hair before their lips even touch.

Phil’s kisses are deep, his hands folding in deliberate patterns around Dan’s waist, skimming firmly up his chest, down his arms - it’s like he’s been planning exactly where he would touch Dan, which bits of him he’d smooth over with his fingertips, his palm, his nails, given the chance. His tongue tastes like fresh water as he pushes it into Dan’s mouth, hot and insistent, grinding his hardness against Dan’s hip - Dan gets the impression that it’s because he just cannot help it.

“Dan,” he sighs, blurring kisses down the slick skin of Dan’s throat, then biting hard, making Dan shudder. “What you said earlier, would you really-”

“Wait,” Dan groans, seizing Phil’s arms and pushing weakly against him, so that he leans back, forced to look Dan in the eye. “Wanna… do stuff to you. Um, first.”

Phil’s head bows, and he lets out a small groan, “you’re gonna torture me first, I see.”

“And you think  _my_ response to an offered blowjob was weird,” Dan mutters, rolling his eyes despite being already halfway to his knees.

“Fuck,” Phil utters, but lets Dan steer him until his back is against the glass, Dan knelt before him, knees already aching from the ceramic shower floor, but too shot through with adrenaline to give much of a damn. “Dan, have you- you haven’t done this before, have you?”

Dan shakes his head, then wraps a hand around Phil’s erection, choking the next words from his mouth. “I’m a quick learner,” Dan assures him, confidence buoyed mostly by the utterly debauched look on Phil’s face.

It’s true, Dan thinks as he slowly pumps a hand over Phil’s impressively sized cock, he’s never put his mouth on a penis, only ever his hands - and once his foot, but that’s a whole different story. But Dan doesn’t feel any apprehension about this, maybe because his mind is consumed with the singular, burning desire to find out  _exactly_  what Phil tastes like, how it will feel to stretch his mouth around as much of him as possible, what sounds Phil might make, what he’ll look like as Dan takes him apart with his tongue.

There’s no question of waiting another second to find out any of these things once he’s thought them, so Dan leans in and slips his mouth over Phil’s cock, lets it glide over his tongue, slippery from shower water, and something else - something sharp and salty, something utterly, sinfully delicious.

Phil moans the instant Dan’s lips graze him - even over the hissing of the shower it’s loud and raw, like it’s been building up for days. Dan compares it, as he moves his head slowly backwards, to the sound of Phil’s singing, and decides that he’d happily listen to either one, all day long, and then all night too. 

Dan pushes forwards again, and finds that accommodating Phil’s girth is even more of a challenge than he expected. He wishes he could remove all of his teeth, to make more room, which is probably the weirdest thought he’s ever had. He’ll get better with practice, Dan tells himself, drawing back again, focusing instead on swirling his tongue around the head of Phil’s cock, moving a sure, steady hand over him in an unbroken rhythm. Phil’s head falls back against the glass of the shower, and his hand reaches out, long, thin fingers sliding over Dan’s scalp. It makes him shiver.

Nothing if not determined, Dan leans back in, pushing his lips over the tip and moving himself slowly further, breathing through his nose, letting Phil’s fingers, raking through his hair, relax him.

“Oh-  _Dan_ ,” Phil strains as Dan feels his cock nudge the back of his throat. It’s a peculiar sensation, and Dan can see that in another situation, it might make him gag. But he’s too immersed, too focused, too bloody turned on for it to be anything other than incredibly erotic. He looks up, through lashes blurred by droplets of shower water, in an attempt to lock eyes with Phil over the expanse of his body. He thinks he manages it, because Phil’s hips twitch, and he lets out a small whimper, but like he said it’s pretty blurry, so he can’t be sure. “Dan, that feels… that feels  _so good_.”

Dan pulls off with a satisfying pop, letting Phil’s cock bob in the air for a moment, and chuckles, wiping the water from his eyes. His fist continues to jerk over Phil’s cock, steady and consistent, but not quite enough to be… enough. Phil’s teeth are clamped together, Dan can see it in the tight line of his jaw, which is twitching at the corner, making Dan want to jump to his feet and lick that spot, so he can feel the quirk of muscles against his tongue.

To Dan’s surprise, Phil takes him by the arm and pulls him upright, as if he’s heard Dan’s thoughts. “Hey, I’m not done,” Dan complains, though he moves far too easily for his own liking.  _Why is that?_  he wonders to his lust-addled brain. Is he so under Phil’s annoyingly dreamlike spell that he’d literally do anything he asked?

“Come to bed,” Phil urges, then drags him forwards for a messy, wet kiss that lasts mere seconds, but has Dan breathless by the end.

Apparently yes, he would do just about anything, Dan answers himself as Phil switches off the shower and drags him out of the door, the cool air of the bathroom sweeping over him at once. He barely gets a chance to shiver however, before Phil is wrapping him in something warm and impossibly soft. The towels Dan doles out for the other guests are decidedly not this fluffy, and Dan wonders, very briefly, before other more important things take over, how Phil got his hands on them.

Phil is  _naked_  though - admittedly towelled now - but still  _naked_ , so Dan trots after him like a puppy following its master, through to the main room. He’s not really sure why Phil bothered to cocoon him in a towel, given that he whips it off as soon as Dan approaches the bed, then drops his own, and pushes Dan backwards, diving down on top of him.

“D-did you not want me to f-finish the blowjob, or-” Dan tries to say, though it’s difficult to get any sort of articulation around his words when Phil’s tongue is travelling down his neck.

“Oh, you can finish,” Phil purrs, that low velvety voice firing straight in the direction of Dan’s achingly hard dick, “I just want to taste you, too.”

“Err,” Dan says, because he’s pretty sure that suggestion is impossible, but is promptly rolled onto his side before he can verbalise any such thing. At once, Phil begins manoeuvring himself, seeming to have a clear goal in mind as he rolls onto his opposite side, still facing Dan, and crawls towards his legs. Belatedly, Dan realises what is happening, and - absurdly -  _blushes_ , registering that the level of debauchery the evening has been at so far is about to peak into new territory. “O-oh.”

Phil lets out a laugh, and the breath ghosts over Dan’s cock, scintillating and so fucking good that his eyes flutter, and his hand twists into the duvet. “Feel free to continue what you were doing,” Phil tells him, “if you like.” 

Then he leans in and slips his mouth - his hot, wet, fluttering mouth - around Dan’s cock. It’s so good Dan could weep, thinks he might actually tear up if he has nothing to distract him from the idea. Luckily, there is a convenient way to occupy himself right in front of his nose. He leans in, eager to resume his first blowjob-attempt, this time renewed with vigour and marginally more dry.

Dan’s vaguely aware, as he takes Phil into his mouth, guided by a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, that this position has a name. It’s something he’s not seen or even heard of being done outside of porn, but here he is, indulging in it readily - and it’s  _great_. He can feel Phil’s whole body, pressed along the length of him, his big hands spread over Dan’s bum. He can feel Phil’s mouth, overwhelmingly slick, warm, and perfect, moving over him in a maddeningly even pace. But more than that, on top of those sensations, Dan can act - can pull quiet shudders from Phil with a careful flicker of tongue, can draw out moan after moan, can stretch his mouth around Phil’s cock and taste him, as Phil tastes Dan too.

Dan’s fingers trail over Phil’s hips, dipping into the curve of his waist, over his ribs. His heart is fluttering, Dan can feel it - palpitating even - and his breaths are short and sharp. Just as Dan wonders whether maybe this is all coming to a head, Phil pulls off, breathless, and says, “Dan- I-I’m close to… if you don’t want me to, y’know, then stop-”

Dan pulls off, sitting up and twisting to try and burn the full force of his indignant, affronted glare into Phil’s stupidly blue eyes. “What makes you think I don’t want to taste you too?” he asks, voice as rough and deep as it’s ever been; he does follow it up with a grin however, which might knock the heat out of it. 

He sinks back down, too full of swirling, undulating adrenaline to consider any sort of pause to allow Phil a response, and slides Phil’s cock back into his mouth, taking it deep - deeper than he’s managed yet. Phil lets out a choked, desperate sort of sound, hips jolting forwards, further into Dan, likely without meaning to, not that Dan minds. Dan just goes with it, slips his hands around to clutch at the globes of Phil’s firm, gorgeous ass, and pull him in; he wants Phil inside him, deep and firm, he doesn’t care how.

He reaches down, between the crevice of Phil’s upper thighs, to trickle gentle, teasing fingers over his balls, marvelling at the sensation of them tightening under his ministrations.  

It’s as Dan’s swallowing, with some difficulty, around the thick, engorged length of him, that Dan feels Phil release his hold on whatever knot he’s been clutching. It frays, splitting in one sudden rip, Phil crying out too loud, dangerously loud - what if guests are still awake? - as he spills his release straight down Dan’s throat. It’s, by far, the best possible result Dan could have hoped for. He swallows eagerly, letting the warm substance sluice down his raw, bruised throat, wanting every last drop, because this man - this infuriating, awful and incredible man - has already claimed him on every inch of his outer body, and it’s only fitting that he should do the same with Dan’s insides, as well. He tastes like warm rainwater, with a sweet, sharp flavour on the after-notes, like licking the edge of a silver spoon.

Phil’s thighs are trembling beneath Dan’s hands as he wraps his lips back around Dan’s cock, so ferociously determined in his movements now that Dan’s every muscle goes instantly taut, and he feels himself hurled, body and soul, into a shimmering nebula of ecstasy. It rips through his physical body, splitting each cell, dragging a guttural moan from his throat. His vision blurs, obliterated by exploding suns, and then he’s being rolled onto his back, stars scattered over his burning skin in the form of kisses.

“Hey,” Phil says some time later, somehow at his shoulder, pouring seawater blue into his eyes. “You ok?”

“I’m…” Dan whispers, finding himself pulled in, drawn to the radiating, pulsing warmth of the body at his side. There’s an aura of indigo, shimmering atop Phil’s damp, glistening skin; Dan’s fingers skim along his arms, trying to catch the colour, to trap it and keep hold. “I’m… yeah. That was…”

“Fucking amazing,” Phil finishes for him, laughing against his mouth. Dan hadn’t realised their lips were so close, but now he can taste Phil’s breath on his tongue. That alone is enough to have Dan aching for him again, for his cock to swell once again, so quickly that it’s agonising, the desperation for more touch, more Phil. More, more, more. While they still have time. “Dan…” Phil starts to say.

“Again,” Dan demands, not listening, pushing Phil back by the shoulders, rolling him back onto a bed of dark matter, to trace the galaxies, hidden in his clavicles, with a searching, yearning tongue. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Sixteen coming Next Friday!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected arrivals

“Dan,” Phil whispers, broad hands skimming up Dan’s upper arms, “Dan, wait-”

But Dan is not listening. He slides a thigh over Phil’s legs, his damp, rapidly contracting chest pressing against Phil’s as he seats himself in his lap. Their mouths are too far apart, much too far, so Dan moulds them together, alight with his own urgency.

“Do you still want to fuck me?” he murmurs into the hollow of Phil’s mouth.

Phil’s fingers curl around Dan’s arms. “Are… are you sure-”

“Phil.” Dan rolls his hips so that Phil can feel how hard he’s become, again, in such a short space of time. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Phil whispers; when Dan leans back to look at him, his pupils are wide enough that if he leaned forward, Dan’s sure he would plunge right in. “God, yes.”

Dan feels thin, taut strings of adrenaline plucking at his nerves, and he kisses Phil again. “Tell me what to do.”

The words seem to knock Phil back from whatever astral plane he’s been floating, into a realm of conscious thought. He holds Dan still by the grip on his arms, swallowing thickly. “Lube,” he says, seemingly telling himself more than Dan. “I- I have some, wait…”

Gently, he pushes Dan off his lap, onto the mattress. Dan draws his knees to his chest and wraps an arm around them, trying to ignore the burn of his own erection as he watches Phil move fluidly through the dark, pulling open one of his bedside drawers, back curved in a long bow.

He finds what he’s looking for and turns back to Dan, throwing a small white bottle onto the bed, then leaning in to kiss him. “I’m guessing you haven’t…?”

“No,” Dan whispers, and wonders if the obvious timidity of his voice is a turn-off. “But I can make it good for you.” He unfurls himself, draping arms around Phil’s shoulders, his lips skimming across Phil’s jaw. “Just tell me how.”

Phil shudders, drawing Dan in for a kiss with two gentle fingers on his chin. “Good for me? What about you?”

Dan blinks, then shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

 _Oh no_ , Dan thinks as Phil leans away from him, unwinds Dan’s hands from his shoulders. He’s said something wrong. Phil looks troubled, and God, why does he always manage to fuck things up with his stupid words? He’s ruined everything, splintered the glass bubble, disappointed Phil, again-

“Wait here,” Phil whispers, pressing a last fleeting kiss to Dan’s lips. 

It’s torture, pure and cruel, to watch him move away. Phil gets up before Dan has a chance to object, to apologise and attempt to rectify whatever it is he did. Instead, he’s forced to simply watch, drawn in on himself in the centre of Phil’s bed, wondering what he said that was wrong, or what part wasn’t sexy enough; Dan anxiously bites at his thumbnail. 

Should he have pretended that he was experienced? Is his lack of sexual knowledge boring to someone like Phil? He probably doesn’t want to go slow, to teach Dan what to do - how is schooling a twenty-three year-old boy on stuff he should definitely already know in any way erotic?

Phil is over by his wardrobe, rifling inside of it for something Dan cannot see. He’s all long, hard lines, and shadowed muscle - intimidating and so gorgeous that Dan aches just to look at him. He should have feigned more sexual prowess, he thinks regrettably; he should have put on airs to impress someone this… seraphic. How can he hope, as a virgin in this area, to please Phil in comparison with someone like Nikolai, who has had countless lovers of all genders?

Phil draws something from the closet, something long and thin - a piece of dark fabric. He wraps it loosely around his wrist, then walks back to the bed, kneeling in front of Dan on the mattress and taking hold of his hand. Dan can only stare dumbly, too afraid of his own incompetence to do or say anything more just yet.

“Do you trust me?” Phil asks.

Dan frowns. “Um.”

 _Does he_? He thinks back over the last few days, remembering all the many ways he’s placed his trust in Phil’s hands: he’d let Phil fly him in a plane, and they hadn’t crashed. He’d let Phil take him skiing, and even though he’d gotten injured, that was mostly his own fault, and then Phil had made sure he got home safely. He’d let Phil touch him, let Phil kiss him and share intimate details of his life. The answer is startlingly obvious, though Dan is shocked to come to the realisation.

“I trust you,” he says, startled by the admission. “Yeah. I do.”

Phil smiles, then lifts the fabric in his hands. “Close your eyes.”

So Dan does. Seconds later, cool, silky fabric is being placed over his closed lids, wrapping around his skull. Phil ties the material at the back of Dan’s head, tight but not too tight, and Dan is instantly blind. He feels his breathing hasten, and his fingers curl in the creases of the duvet.

It’s not an entirely pleasant feeling, having a whole sense stripped completely away. Sure, he does apparently trust Phil, but there is a tinny voice in the back of his paranoid brain saying that it might not be an entirely  _sensible_  decision to trust someone he’s known for less time than Mona. And then lips, impossibly soft and warm, trail over his neck. Light, careful fingers skim down his arms, over his chest, making him shiver.

Dan’s inhales become gasps; his cock twitches in anticipation as his mind desperately tries to work out where the next touch will come from. It seems that Phil is everywhere somehow, a ghost dancing through the night air, brushing against him from every angle. He reaches, blindly, and finds Phil’s thigh, or what he thinks is Phil’s thigh, bristled with soft hairs. Phil places his own hand over Dan’s, links their fingers together, and brings it to his mouth.

“I want you to feel this,” Phil whispers, then shuffles, leading Dan down the bed until Dan imagines they must almost be at the edge of it. Phil pulls Dan’s hand gently, then places it on something tall and thin, something that feels like wood. It must be the post at the bed’s corner, Dan thinks hazily, running his hand over the cool, smooth surface. Phil finds Dan’s other hand, then brings that to the post too. “Keep your hands here. Just feel.”

Dan nods, starting to tremble. He’s on his knees, bent forwards to hold the post. Phil’s fingers trail down his spine, over his bum, making Dan’s knees weaken. He shuffles again, jolting the mattress, making Dan momentarily unsteady. Then Phil is behind him, hands skimming his hips, mouth pressing gentle, damp kisses over his back. Dan can only imagine how he looks right now, naked and exposed, but Phil says nothing, only touches in soft, reverent strokes.

He tries to do as Phil said, to stop thinking about how Phil must be perceiving him, to stop worrying about the things he might be doing wrong, and just _feel_. But it’s hard; his mind is a constant tornado of thought every minute of the day, and right now is unfortunately no exception. He wishes he’d drunk something strong before coming in here tonight, but he didn’t and he’s stone cold sober.

Phil’s lips are at the base of his spine, and his hands wrap around Dan’s hipbones. He slides one hand forwards, lacing through the tight hairs at Dan’s groin and then curling fingers around Dan’s cock. The relief of being touched here is sensational; Dan lets out a sigh of breath he hadn’t been aware was lingering in his lungs, and shifts his hips forwards, thrusting into Phil’s loose fist. 

“Just relax,” Phil murmurs. His hand is soft and tender, excruciating in its gentle pull, but still perfect. “Feel,” he says again, and Dan tries to pin the instruction to his frontal lobe, tries to fold his brain around it. 

Before he can think about it too much however, Phil’s mouth drags lower, and his hand presses into the centre of Dan’s back, arching him further forwards. Dan’s breath catches in his lungs, heart lurching in alarm as he realises Phil isn’t stopping in his descent down Dan’s rear, is pressing kiss after kiss against him, between the cleft of his cheeks. Dan’s face sears with heat, and his muscles tighten.

Phil’s palm is pressed to Dan’s left ass cheek, as if holding him steady. Dan’s breaths are growing stilted and jagged, a protest is forming on the tip of his tongue, ready to urge Phil not to do something so… intimate. But then, like a blade of grass tickling his skin on a summer’s day picnic, Dan feels the unmistakeable flicker of a tongue against a place so sensitive that it drains the resistance from his body. He groans, unabashed, as his resolve melts away into the air; his bones liquify, and he sinks backwards, chasing more.

He needn’t have worried, Dan realises in the next few minutes, about his overthinking. The sensation of Phil’s tongue, licking light and feather-soft against him, is not only enough to obliterate every single thought from Dan’s crowded mind, but to erase his whole sense of self along with it. The room, the bed, the mountain, the world - all of it evaporates, disintegrates totally, leaving behind only Phil, and his delicate, teasing tongue, unceasingly good as it laves over that same spot.

Dan is whimpering, fingernails digging grooves into the varnish of the post he’s gripping. He can feel his body shaking, can feel wet droplets of viscous fluid begin leaking out of his cock. Phil’s tongue is more insistent now, is daring to inch its way past Dan’s rim; Dan is certain that if it goes on much longer he’ll split apart, lose himself in some sub-atomic dimension, spiralling forever in the throes of absolute ecstasy.

“Phil,” he chokes out, near tears from how good it feels, “Phil, please…”

If Dan were in any state of coherency, he might try to analyse the noise Phil makes as he pulls back, but it sounded something like reluctance. He trails what feels like the edge of his thumb through the crack of Dan’s ass, over the slickened area around his hole, and further, until he has a hand cupped around Dan’s balls.

“You taste fucking good, Dan.”

Dan has no words available in his arsenal to possibly respond. Instead, his body seems to alight from within, until he’s sure his skin is blossomed with flushes. 

“Will you fuck me now?”

Again, Phil makes a sound, kind of like he’s been whipped with something sharp, and presses a kiss to Dan’s hipbone. “You’re gonna kill me,” Phil murmurs, then draws away, shuffling around on the bed. Dan remains perfectly still, hands right where Phil had placed them on the post, too afraid to move in case he ruins everything somehow, and loses this indescribable feeling roiling through him. He wants Phil to stay in control, to dictate every part of this night so that Dan doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to decide a damn thing. He always gets it wrong anyway; Phil, annoyingly, never seems to. “Tell me if it hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

A flash of nerves flits through Dan’s chest, but it’s gone in the next second, as cool, slippery fingers ghost over the place where Phil’s mouth had just been. Dan is so relaxed already that he doesn’t think he could tense up again if he wanted to, so Phil’s lube-coated finger just slips straight into him, as easily as if it were pushing into butter.

It’s such a strange sensation that Dan can’t quite hold on to it. His fingers loosen around the post, sliding up and down it, trying to let the peculiar feeling settle through his body. He feels his muscles tighten around Phil’s finger, and then Phil shuddering, presumable thinking of what that might feel like around his cock. Dan expected pain, he expected a sense of wrongness or intrusion. Instead, it feels like he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time, like his body has been in a limbo, and now it’s being pulled into the physical plane, bathed in light and touch. He presses backwards, wanting to draw Phil’s finger in deeper, to encourage Phil to explore him from the inside out.

Phil adds another finger; it slides into him just as swiftly, and Dan actually moans. He didn’t think it could feel better than just that one, but now he realises the stretch only adds to the bliss, makes him feel malleable under Phil’s hands, like Phil is moulding Dan to his desire. He wants three of those long fingers to tuck themselves into him- heck, he wants four, wants Phil to crawl into him and reside there. Perhaps he’s a little delirious.

“Fuck, Phil,” Dan says in an attempt to convey his appreciation. Phil’s got three fingers inside of him now, scissoring and stretching at a methodical pace. Dan bites down on his lip, but a moan escapes anyway. “ _Please_ , Phil, God.”

“You’re gonna have to stop begging me if you want me to last more than five seconds, Dan.”

Phil’s voice is a shade of his usual scornfulness, but there’s a desperate edge to it, making it lose its potency. Dan feels a ripple of smugness undulate through him at the idea that his pleas might be shaking Phil’s sexual stamina, but he’s too distracted by the intense, coursing pleasure prickling through his body to revel for long. Phil’s fingers pull out of him, moving to pluck at the knot securing the tie at the back of Dan’s head. Against his hip, Dan can feel Phil’s erection, brushing him gently, damp and hot.

He thinks of the size of it, how earlier he’d swallowed as much as he could and it still was too much for him - how it stretched his lips wide, how it made his throat ache as it pushed into his oesophagus. All of that will be pushed into him in a different way, Dan thinks as the fabric falls from his eyes, as Phil’s hands pull him this way and that, until his chest is pushed up against the post, until Phil is pressed against his back, kissing his neck and shoulders, asking if he’s ready.

“W-what about a condom?” Dan asks, because he’s horny- not an idiot.

“I already put one on,” Phil replies, to Dan’s surprise. “Wanna check?”

Dan turns to look over his shoulder at where Phil is knelt behind him, his long, swollen erection coated in shiny, thin polyisoprene. His responding reaction is visceral and sharp, seeming to hook at Dan’s groin and slice through his body. He shudders, biting hard on his lip, and leans back into Phil.

“Kiss me,” he begs, well aware of the urgency in his voice. “Kiss me, and then fuck me. Please.”

“Oh, Dan,” Phil groans, all but falling forwards to smash their mouths together. “R-relax okay? I’ll go slow.”

Dan nods, reluctant to turn away from such a dazzling sight, but equally eager to move things along. Phil’s cock presses against him, guided by Phil’s hand, and Dan has to force himself to remain still, not to push back into the feel of it. Phil’s other hand is firmly placed on Dan’s hip; he uses it to anchor himself as he presses inside, the tip of him alone enough to have Dan’s mouth falling open. It feels so much - almost too much - but still glorious, still an otherworldly experience. Dan knows he has to be patient, knows that if they do this any faster it could be unbearably painful, and that Phil is just being kind.

But his lizard-brain is dumb and impulsive, twitching his hips as if trying to force him to push backwards, drag Phil inside of him in a sudden surge. It feels like Phil is teasing him, like he so often does. It seems that eons pass, the air thick and heavy with their intermingling breaths, as Phil inches inside of him, fingers twitching at Dan’s hip.

Dan feels it the second he’s fully sheathed. Against his skin, the bristles of Phil’s pubic hair are like hearing an Angelic chorus, he’s so glad to recognise them. “Okay if I move?”

“Think I might have to bite you if you don’t,” Dan grits out; he’s sure he’s raked dents into the wood of this post by now, and hopes Mona won’t notice.

Phil chuckles, low and breathy - a sound that goes straight to Dan’s cock, unhelpfully, as he’s already on the verge of exploding. 

“Kinky,” Phil says, then draws his hips backwards.

The drag of Phil’s cock against Dan’s insides is almost enough to knock him into his climax there and then, but Dan digs his nails further into the wood, undoubtedly splintering his skin, and holds off - just.

“Still okay?”

“God, Phil, just fucking move,” Dan snaps, which makes Phil laugh again, fractured and slightly hysterical.

To Dan’s dismay, instead of doing as he says, Phil speaks again, thumb rubbing softly over Dan’s hip. “Should’ve known you’d be a bossy bitch.”

Mostly because he’s too turned on to play this damned sparring game of theirs right now, Dan pushes his hips backwards, punching the air out of Phil’s lungs. It slams Phil back inside of him, quick and sudden enough that it’s on the painful side, but Dan just shudders, relishing every second.

“Dan, fucking hell-”

“I’m not about to break,” Dan says, harried by his own desperation to come, “fuck me properly, you wuss.”

Thankfully, Phil swallows whatever annoying, dumb retort was inevitably on the tip of his tongue in favour of grabbing Dan’s wrists, pulling his hands off the post, and yanking him backwards until they’re flush against one another, Dan’s back pressed to Phil’s chest.

“Okay,” Phil whispers straight into Dan’s ear, and then he’s being pushed to the bed.

Phil slips out of him - Dan near weeps from the loss - but he doesn’t have long to miss it. Phil splays Dan out on his back, lifts his thighs and plunges back into him, hands coming down to brace either side of Dan’s head.

He’s pressed so deeply into Dan now that Dan cannot figure out where he ends and Phil begins. Phil’s hips snap into him, fluid and practiced, like he wants to bury himself into Dan as far as possible in short, swift bursts. He shifts a little, seeming to know how to angle himself, hands lifting Dan’s hips just so, and then Dan is split into a trillion shiny pieces, utterly bursting from the seams. A moan spills from his throat as the pleasure sluices through him, eviscerating his every nerve in a firestorm. Phil is maddeningly precise, aiming for one sweet spot tucked far inside Dan where he never thought to reach. He rakes fingers down Phil’s back, feeling his eyes sparkle.

“Fuck, fuck, Phil, I’m gonna come-”

“Yeah, come,” Phil urges, “let me-”

He reaches between their bodies, hips still rolling forwards, pushing himself into Dan’s trembling body, and takes hold of Dan’s cock. The second Phil’s fingers wrap around him, Dan near-screams, face burying into Phil’s shoulder. He comes so hard he thinks he might pass out with the intensity. The drapery of the bed above him begins to look porous with dark spots as he writhes beneath Phil, gripping his damp shoulders for dear life.

“Fuck,” Phil moans, sounding on the edge. “Dan.  _Dan_.”

His own climax is less violent. His hips speed up, then stutter, and he drives himself so deeply forwards that Dan wonders if he might splinter apart. Dan’s fingers trickle over Phil’s back, urging him on, coaxing him over the edge of the cliff. He can feel it as Phil’s cock pulses inside of him, and the sensation is filthy, addictive - something that Dan knows he will never ever forget.

After a minute or so, Phil’s breaths are less irregular, and he softens, slackens, rolling off Dan and out of him. They crawl beneath the covers, dragging each other by various limbs, as if they were injured soldiers on a battlefield, pulling one another to safety. Once under the protection of the bedclothes, Dan can summon the energy to do nothing except fold himself into the crook of Phil’s arm. He needs closeness, warmth, comfort. He just hopes that Phil won’t mock him for it.

To his relief, Phil’s arms immediately wrap around him, drawing him in until all Dan can taste is the sweat on his chest, the breath ghosting over his cheek. 

“Bossy and clingy,” Phil murmurs, but he’s holding Dan so tightly that the words don’t stick. It might be Dan’s imagination, but he thinks he can feel lips grazing the top of his head. “Do you think…”

Dan teeters precariously on the edge of unconsciousness, but clings on with one fingertip to the cusp of Phil’s almost-question. “Do I think what?”

There’s a long, silent moment before Phil speaks. “Do you think, if we knew each other back down in the real world - before I was, y’know, whisked away by an asshole or whatever - that we’d have…”

He lets it trail off, but Dan isn’t too exhausted to not understand what he means. His heart tugs, sensing the wistful aura dancing around Phil’s words. He can’t bring himself to reply honestly, it would be too heartbreaking, and neither of them can do anything about it now. There’s just no point in dwelling on what might’ve been.

So, instead, Dan snorts and says, “God no. You’d drive me nuts in any alternate version of reality, no question.”

Phil laughs, kicking Dan gently in the leg, then letting himself sink into the mattress beneath them, apparently content with this reply. Dan sighs softly, inaudibly, letting himself pretend, in the tiny moment before dream envelops him, that Phil’s embrace is just one of many more to come.

*

The click of a door rouses Dan from a deep, void-like sleep, instantly worrying him. He sits up, already aware of the lack of another person beside him in this enormous bed, but finds that Phil is re-entering the room, not leaving it. He’s wearing one of the guest robes, carrying two mugs in his hands. He’s wearing his glasses. At first, he’s concentrating on the mugs, too careful in his movements to notice Dan has woken, but at the foot of the bed he stops, catching Dan’s eye, and smiles, then walks around to place one of the mugs at Dan’s bedside.

“What time is it?” Dan asks, yawning as he reaches for it. 

He’s vaguely aware of a few dull aches around his body as he moves, and as his brain helpfully attributes each one to an activity from last night, he flushes a deeper shade. By the time Phil de-robes and climbs back in beside him, Dan’s a different colour entirely.

“Early,” Phil says, blowing softly on his own coffee. “Really early. You’ve got a while before you need to be anywhere.”

“Thank God,” Dan says in a sigh, then lets his head fall backwards against the mound of pillows. They lounge into a companionable silence, taking tentative sips of too-hot coffee, and basking in the comfort of this luxurious bed. It’s only as Dan’s taking his second sip of coffee that he realises the concept of coffee in bed is a strange one, given their circumstances. He frowns at the beige liquid, turning to Phil. “How did you… where did these come from?”

Phil cocks an eyebrow. “The kitchen.”

Dan sits up a little straighter, searching Phil’s face for further clues. “From… did you ask Louise for  _two_  cups of coffee?”

Phil takes a long drink, nodding. “Problem?”

Dan balks at him, fear slicing through his chest. “Prob- Phi-il! You might as well have just shown her the used condom, you-” Dan stops short, noticing the laugh lines creasing around Phil’s eyes. He sinks back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut briefly. “You’re such a wanker.”

“I made the coffees, Drama Queen,” Phil says, laughing outright. “Louise isn’t even up yet.”

“Explains why it’s weak and gritty,” Dan mutters, though in truth the coffees aren’t half bad.

He makes a mental note to ask why he’s always the one making coffee, burning himself raw on a machine he only barely knows how to use, if Phil is perfectly capable of doing it himself. 

Phil prods him in the side of his bare chest, disrupting the thought. “Not a morning person, are you?”

“Not when you give me a heart attack seconds after I wake up,” Dan replies, though a traitorous smile has crept onto his face now.

“I thought you said that Louise already knows we’re… involved?” Phil says curiously, head tilting to the side.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t approve,” Dan says, mouth twisting into a frown. “Or I don’t think she does.”

“Hmm,” Phil says, nodding to himself, like he’s noting it down somewhere in his mad mind. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Dan’s cheeks warm. “F-fine.”

Phil studies him, sipping quietly. “Yeah?”

“What are you asking, exactly?”

“It was… pretty intense. What happened. I’m just checking-”

“I’m fine,” Dan says, though his heart does a little fluttery thing that he kind of detests. “What about you? Or are you immune to ‘intensity’ because of some Royalty-training exercise in keeping-calm-and-carrying-on-”

Phil casually slips the mug he’s holding into the other hand, leans across the space between them, and kisses Dan. As methods of shutting him up go, it’s not the most dreadful to endure, though he does spill some coffee in surprise. Phil absolutely notices, and draws back to look pointedly at the stain Dan’s made on the clean white duvet. 

“Time to get up and do some work, lazy,” Phil murmurs into the tiny space between their mouths.

“What’re you gonna do all day?” Dan asks pointedly, though he’s buoyed and bubbly from the unexpected rare glimmer of affection.

Phil smiles, soupy and warm, leaning back into his pillows; Dan’s chest aches for him as he moves away, but he says nothing. “Prob’ly replay the finer moments of last night on repeat for a while. Should keep me busy for a few hours.”

Dan snorts, but inside his chest is a nuclear reactor, poised to erupt. “You’re gross.”

“You’re the one that-”

“I’m getting up now!” Dan cries, shrilly. He steadfastly averts his gaze from Phil’s, sensing that amused little smirk being aimed his way. “See you, um. See you later, I guess.”

“Sure,” Phil says, and then Dan realises he is completely naked. Phil is watching him with interest, obviously curious to see his next move. The bastard has somehow put boxers on, presumably when he left to make coffee. “Need something?”

Ignoring the smug look on Phil’s face, Dan tries to remember what happened to his clothes. He vaguely recalls, whilst caught in the throes of anticipatory confidence, shucking them all off before stepping into the shower. He imagines his jeans and shirt, crumpled on the wet floor of Phil’s bathroom, and winces.

“Could I… could I borrow a robe?”

*

Fifteen minutes later, with as much of the physical evidence of all that happened in the dark hours of last night scrubbed off him as he can manage (he doesn’t remember Phil biting him quite so much as the bruises on his hips and stomach would suggest, but either way, they’re not coming off) Dan is heading down the stairs, dressed.

He’s rehearsing his ‘everything is completely 100% normal’ greeting in his head that he plans to give Mona and Louise when he emerges, but before his foot is on the bottom stair, Mona is grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along.

“Thank God you’re up,” she says, sounding flustered.

A stray flick of hair has escaped her bun. Dan watches it bounce with alarm as he’s tugged into the mezzanine lounge.

“I’m not late!” Dan squeaks, sensing the worst already. He’d been so careful to make sure he came down at a reasonable time so as not to arouse suspicion. “Mona, what’s-”

She stops abruptly in the midst of the half-laid breakfast tables, indoors again because the sleet is still falling outside. She smooths her hair back into place and looks Dan in the eye so seriously that Dan actually braces himself, drawing up to his full height.

“We’ve received an unexpected guest,” she tells him.  _Oh God_. “He’s here to visit Mr Novokoric. Uh, Phil.”

_Oh God, oh God, oh God._

“W-where is he?” Dan asks in a strangled voice.

“Downstairs,” Mona replies, pointing a manicured finger in the direction of the lobby, as if Dan’s forgotten where it is. “He’s a rather moody young man. I told him… I told him I’d send you down directly to check him in.”

“Check him in?!” Dan exclaims, heart already pounding. “Like… he’s going to  _stay_  here?”

“Well he has a bag with him,” Mona says with a shrug. 

“He can’t!” Dan says, desperation perfuming his voice. “He- he has twenty other posh mansions he can stay in, he can’t be here!”

Mona regards him with a curious eye. “Mansions?”

“Yeah…” Dan gets the distinct impression that he’s missing something.

“Dan… who do you think it is?”

Nikolai’s name is on the tip of Dan’s tongue, but as he runs his gaze over Mona’s puzzled expression, he stops short. Just then, the Huangs appear at the bottom of the stairs, lugging their cases with them, ready to check out. Mona jumps to attention, already backing up from Dan in order to go and assist them. As she goes, she mouths ‘lobby!’ to Dan, gesturing towards the stairs again. Then, she turns, all perfect smiles and efficiency, to offer her help to the Huang couple.

Dan swallows, already anxious, and thrown by Mona’s parting words. Nevertheless, he has a job to do, so he heads for the stairs, wishing he had some discreet way of contacting Phil upstairs, possibly to warn him. Though what he’d be warning Phil of remains to be seen. Dan fixes his serene customer service expression in place, and walks swiftly down into the lobby.

Sat in a chair at the side of the room, in a navy duffle coat and thick, snow-crisped boots, is a man that Dan has never seen before, yet looks oddly familiar. The first thing Dan notices about the man is that, quite obviously, he is not Sir Nikolai Novokoric of Switzerland, which earns him huge favours instantly. The second thing he notices is a glittering shade of vivid blue emanating from his narrow eyes.

Dan smiles at the man, trepidatious, walking over to where he’s sat. He gets the immediate sense that the man is studying him closely, looking him up and down. Once Dan is near enough to speak, the man suddenly, and rather harshly, laughs.

“Well, suddenly this all makes a  _world_  of sense,” he says, then sighs, and gets to his feet.

“Um, sorry?” Dan asks.

The man holds out his hand. “Martyn Lester,” he says.

Dan takes his hand carefully, frowning at the name. Where has he heard the name Lester before? “Dan,” he says slowly. “I’m the concierge.”

“Course you are,” Martyn says in what Dan now realises he can place as a Northern English accent. “Cor, it’s like bloody  _Maid in Manhattan_.”

Dan cannot even begin to wrap his head around that bizarre statement, so instead he asks, “um, did you want to check in? We have room four available if you-”

“Right now, the only thing I want to do is see my brother,” Martyn says, arms folding over his chest. “Know where he is?”

“Brother,” Dan repeats, and just like that, it all clicks into place. Dan’s eyes go wide, focusing on Martyn’s glacial blue ones, impossibly piercing, just like- “Oh. Y-you’re Phil’s- I mean, Mr Novokoric’s brother.”

“And former publicist,” Martyn says with a grimace, “thankfully, only one of the two now. Though not sure blood relation is the preferable option, given that he’s a massive wally.”

“R-right,” Dan says, using all his effort not to freak out, “and you’re here because…?”

Martyn shoots him an amused look that’s so reminiscent of Phil’s, Dan almost falls over. “Aren’t I allowed to visit my own kin?”

“Oh! No, of course- I just-”

“Crap.”

Both Dan and Martyn turn; Phil is at the bottom of the floating stairs, one hand hovering over the bannister, staring fixedly at Martyn.

“Nice to see you too,” Martyn says, then stalks across the lobby floor. At first, Dan thinks they’re going to hug, but instead they stand opposite one another, staring, as if both men are daring the other to break the unnatural silence. Martyn sighs, shoulders sagging. “We need to talk. Now.”

Strangely, Phil’s gaze slides across his brother’s shoulder to look at Dan. If he’s after some kind of enlightenment as to why his brother-slash-used-to-be-publicist has turned up out of the blue, he needs to look elsewhere, as Dan feels more in the dark than ever. Martyn follows Phil’s gaze, huffs a long-suffering sigh, and grabs Phil by the shoulder, steering him smartly towards the nearest door, which happens to be the one leading to Mona’s office.

“Dan, would you mind telling your boss that we’ll be using her study for a bit,” Martyn calls over his shoulder. “Family catch-up, you know.”

Dan nods dumbly, though neither of the men are paying him a lick of attention anymore, too busy squabbling in hushed voices as Martyn herds Phil through Mona’s office door. Dan’s gaze slides to Martyn’s small suitcase beside him, wet from melting snow, creating a few puddles on the wooden floor. He lifts it deftly, testing the weight, trying to discern how long Martyn might be planning to stay.

It’s pretty heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seventeen coming Next Friday at 8pm GMT!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Royals and their entourages, amiright

The Fitzgeralds want omelettes for breakfast. But not just one each, Dan learns, when the two adults clean their plates and tell him, patting tummies and grinning, that they’re ready for round two. He’s not sure where the youngest member of their party is hiding, but Dan doesn’t blame her for passing up on watching her parents shovel eggs into their gawping mouths like there’s no tomorrow. Dan has the unfortunate job of telling Louise that she’s expected to fry up unlimited omelettes until the two older Fitzgeralds are completely satisfied. When she smacks him with a yolky wooden spoon, Dan can’t say he blames her.

“You’re so violent when you’re mad,” Dan complains, dabbing at the yellowish stain on his shirt sleeve.

Louise shoots him a glare, whisking eggs vigorously in a bowl. “I have good reason to do a lot worse, so I’d scarper if I were you.”

“I’m not doing anything worse than what Nikolai is doing to-”

“If you think that’s a viable excuse, I’m going to chop you up and feed you to the Fitzgeralds in their next omelette.”

Dan sighs, folding his arms and feeling a lot like a petulant child. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

“Dan, you cannot fight fire with fire. Nikolai is a powerful man. He’s going to steam roller over you without a second thought if he catches wind of what you’re up to with his man.”

“Well, he won’t catch wind. Our wind is thousands of miles away from anyone up here.” That hadn’t come out quite right, Dan thinks, wrinkling his nose.

“Not from everyone,” Louise rightly points out, grinding pepper into the bowl.

An image of Martyn Lester’s exasperated face flashes into Dan’s mind, and he chews his lip, wondering if he and Phil are anywhere near done chatting yet. They still haven’t left Mona’s office, and it’s been over half an hour. Mona’s going beserk, muttering about etiquette and rudeness, scrubbing tables and dusting corners because she can’t get to her desk. Dan can see her through the serving hatch, polishing the huge balcony windows with irritable vigour. 

“Do you know anything about Martyn Lester?” Dan asks in an attempt at nonchalance.

Louise’s lips press together, and she pours some of the egg mixture into the pan. It sizzles pleasantly, immediately beginning to bubble and release a fragrant, delicious aroma. Dan’s stomach rumbles; he hasn’t eaten anything today - too busy sorting out the miraculous appearance of Phil’s sibling.

“I do.” She pauses, prodding at the slowly solidifying omelette with a spatula. “We used to be pals, actually.”

“Used to be?”

“Well, he quit being Phil’s publicist. Pretty abruptly. Just up and left. I haven’t seen him since he walked out.”

“Oh,” Dan says, brows knitting together. The anger in Louise’s voice is unmistakable, but Dan senses he shouldn’t press the still-sore wound. “Do you know why?”

“I imagine there’s more to it than just this, but he was never Nikolai’s biggest fan,” Louise says, then deftly flips the omelette. “He told me that the only reason he ever became Phil’s publicist was to prevent Phil from getting fucked by the guy.”

She pauses, reflecting on her words; her eyes meet Dan’s, and they both snort with laughter.

“You know what I mean,” she says, “Martyn’s a protective older brother type. He and Nikolai did a lot of butting heads.”

“Isn’t it kind of hard to butt heads with someone who’s never around?”

“Yeah, that’s another reason Martyn got so frustrated,” Louise says, shifting omelettes onto plates with swift, practiced movements. “It was always Cornelia he’d have to argue it out with.” Louise looks at Dan as she shoves plates into his hands. “You met her, right? The fiery redhead?”

“Yeah. She seemed cool.”

“Anyway, I don’t know much more than that, but if he’s here after having quit so dramatically, I’d say it’s doubtful that he brings good tidings.” Louise gives him a ‘well?’ look, gesturing to the plates in his hands. “Off you go, then.”

Awash with new information, Dan then turns to the door of the kitchen, and heads out to deliver the Fitzgeralds their second serving.

*

It’s two in the afternoon, and Phil is avoiding him. There’s no definitive evidence of this, but Dan’s ninety-nine percent sure. He’s been glimpsing Phil all day, through the window in the door of the gym as he works out, hurrying through the lobby in damp clothes, sat at a table in deep conversation with Martyn, but he hasn’t so much as caught Dan’s eye. It’s pissing Dan off to no end, though he’s trying to make excuses for him as his brother’s sudden appearance could mean all sorts of things. 

Still, he feels like grabbing Phil by the shoulders and spinning him round so that they’re forced to lock eyes, then telling him  _‘hey, dickhead, you were inside of me last night, the least you can do is nod in my direction, even if you have to wait until Martyn is looking the other way’_.

Dan’s at the front desk, checking in the new couple that have just arrived with Kaspar in tow: Ms Stone and Ms Harris. They’re both in their seventies, and Ms Stone is in a wheelchair, so it’s pretty impressive that they’ve made it up here at all, but they’re perfectly chipper, papery, ungloved hands tightly clasped. Dan hands over their room key, and just as Kaspar is jerking Ms Stone backwards and spinning her, rather alarmingly fast, in the direction of their wheelchair lift, Phil appears from nowhere, at the side of the desk, bright eyes screaming ‘we need to talk’.

He says a polite “hello” to Kaspar, who bellows an enthusiastic response that makes excessive use of the word ‘Philly’. Then, seeming not to be able to contain his urgency, Phil turns to Dan, inclining his head towards Mona’s office.

Dan nods at him, a little annoyed that he’s being so obvious in front of people, but telling himself Phil must have a reason. Phil slinks off, and Dan turns back to Ms Stone and Ms Harris to tell them that he’ll be up shortly to deliver their bags. Just as they’re disappearing from view, Dan’s preparing to creep round to the office when he senses eyes on him. He looks about, searching for the source of the prickling sensation that’s grazing the back of his neck. At the last second, he looks upwards; peering over the edge of the mezzanine rail is the Fitzgerald’s teenage daughter, her blue strands of hair dangling over the wood.

She’s looking directly at him, her stare wide and unfaltering, like she’s attempting to pierce into his head telepathically. He cocks his head to the side, wondering whether he should call out to her, though he doesn’t even know her first name. Just as he’s debating what to do, she ducks backwards, out of sight, and the moment is snatched away.

When Dan gets into the office, Phil is leaned up against Mona’s desk like some hip CEO with an ‘open door policy’ for his office full of workers. He looks weary, which Dan supposes isn’t so surprising, given that he happens to know Phil got a lot less sleep than usual last night, but there’s something underneath it too. A bone-deep exhaustion, so intense that it radiates off him in waves.

“Nikolai’s coming,” Phil says without preamble. Dan’s only just clicked the door shut behind him. He blinks at Phil slowly, a dread creeping over his body from toe to neck. “He’ll be here soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe earlier.”

“Oh,” Dan says, then feels dumb for not having a better response to hand. “Why?”

Long fingers carve narrow valleys through jet black hair. “Apparently someone tipped off the media that Nik and I are definitely breaking it off.” He shrugs. “I mean, I thought I already made that pretty obvious at the charity event. Someone had new information though, I guess.”

“What? Who could possibly have any new information?”

“My guess is one of the vapid yuppies Nikolai has trailing around him 24-7,” Phil replies with a sniff. “Maybe one of them overheard when I called him yesterday. Decided to make a quick buck.”

“So… Nikolai’s coming here why?”

“He hasn’t been able to contact me about all the new stories flying about, so he got in touch with Martyn, figuring he’d be able to snag my attention,” Phil says, sounding bitter. “Martyn listened to Nik ranting about my radio silence for roughly thirty seconds and then hopped on a plane to warn me-”

“Sorry, why hasn’t Nik been able to contact you?” Dan asks, too sharpened from nerves to care about the details. “I thought he was texting you constantly.”

“Well, yeah, he was.” Phil’s eyes, which have been glazed, staring into the near distance, refocus on Dan. The corner of his mouth twitches, and one of his sleek, dark eyebrows arches upwards. “And then I suddenly became somewhat preoccupied.”

“Oh,” Dan says, then trips over what seems to be his own foot. “Right.”

Phil’s little amused smile is not as laser-focused on Dan as he’s grown accustomed. Dan gets the distinct feeling that whilst Phil is still all too happy to have a chuckle over his idiocy, his conscious brain is somewhere else. It’s kind of unpleasant to suddenly have the spotlight whisked off him, after having been the sole focus of Phil’s attention for so long. He kind of wants to snap his fingers in front of those blue eyes and bring him back into the room.

“Nik likes to be the centre of a scandal, but only when he’s in control of it,” Phil muses, arms folding across his chest. He’s silent for a moment, and Dan can practically see the wheels turning in his brain. “There’s… something else, too.”

“Yeah?” Dan’s heart picks up its pace.

“There’s a rumour, apparently, that I have… someone.”

“Someone?”

“Like, someone that’s making me want to leave my husband.”

Dan’s breathing stalls. He feels Mona’s floor cracking beneath his feet. “Surely people can’t know about-”

“I don’t see how,” Phil says, running a hand through his hair again. It seems to be an unconscious action, whenever he feels stressed. “But we should probably be careful.”

“ _Careful_?” Dan repeats, astounded. “You mean like subtly beckoning me in here to talk in private, right in front of brand new guests? And Kaspar?” Phil gives him a look, but Dan can feel himself getting worked up. If he stays in this small room with Phil for much longer, he’s going to boil over and say something he regrets. “I-I have to get out of here-”

Behind him, the latch of the door twitches before he so much as moves a muscle. Dan knows this because he’s leant against it; the wooden lever is digging into the small of his back. He locks eyes with Phil, alarmed, and witnesses what he imagines is reflection of his own fear painting Phil’s face. The latch lifts properly this time, and the door pushes against Dan, but he uses all his weight to prevent it opening.

He mouths  _‘help me’_  to Phil, who jumps to action at once, coming to assist Dan as he holds the door closed. From the other side, Mona’s voice calls, “who’s in there?”

“What are we going to do?” Dan hisses under his breath. The door rattles; she’s growing impatient.

Phil is staring searching Dan’s face for some kind of plan. “It’s me, Mona,” Phil calls out. Dan gapes at him. Surely he cannot be about to reveal that the two of them are in here, alone, seconds after telling Dan they need to keep their shit on the DL. “My brother and I needed the office again. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. The door stops rattling. “Why is the door locked?”

Dan presses his mouth together, trying not to breathe too loudly, in case Mona could recognise the air rushing from his lungs. Phil looks skyward, grasping for a response. “We, uh, didn’t want to be disturbed. It’s a serious, uh, matter we’re discussing. Could you just give us five more minutes, please?”

“Mr Novokoric, I really need to get to my desk.”

“Just five minutes,” Phil begs, then squeezes his eyes shut.

Dan bites his lip, praying. Eventually, Mona says, “fine. But after that, you’ll have to find somewhere else to go. Like your suite, perhaps. Or Mr Lester’s perfectly adequate room.”

“Sure,” Phil says, shooting Dan a look of relief. “Thanks, Mona.”

“Five minutes!”

The sound of her kitten heels click-clacking away are like music to Dan’s ears. He blows out a huge puff of air, slumping against the door. “Fuck, that was close. No idea how we’d have explained that.”

“And we weren’t even doing anything fun to explain away,” Phil says regretfully, aiming a half-smile at Dan.

He tries not to return it, but fails spectacularly. “I should go,” Dan says, partly because he can sense this conversation heading into dangerous territory, and what they absolutely do not need is for Mona to come back in five minutes and walk in on something even worse. “Let me out first, you follow in a minute or two.”

“Wait, Dan,” Phil says, grabbing hold of his arm. He lets go pretty fast, but it was a telling move. Dan stops, waiting to hear him out. “I- I know this is all… not ideal. I didn’t know Martyn was coming, and obviously the timing is pretty crap what with everything that happened last night…”

Dan blushes, looking away. “That’s family for you, I guess.”

“And with Nik coming, I don’t know when we’ll next get a chance to…” Phil trails off, and Dan’s eyes bulge. Phil laughs at his expression. “To be alone. To talk. Whatever.”

“Oh,” Dan says. “Yeah, I guess that wouldn’t be wise whilst they’re all… watching.”

“So,” Phil says, leaning back on his hands. His cheeks are vaguely stained with magenta.

“So,” Dan echoes.

A beam of clear, glossy light pierces Dan’s mind, softening his pounding heart. He recognises this half-conversation. Phil is asking for something, without using real words. A tiny smile playing on his mouth, Dan steps in front of him, takes his dumb, emotionally stunted face in both hands, and kisses him, soft and slow. He only lets it last a moment, just long enough for the taste of Phil’s tongue to seep through, so Dan can remember it.

He leans back, and says, “catch you later. Good luck.”

Phil smiles, eyes flicking towards the ceiling for a moment before landing back on Dan. “Thanks,” he says quietly, then moves away from the door so Dan can open it. As he steps through, back into the lobby, Dan turns for a final look. Phil’s watching him with a worried expression, though he does give Dan a tiny wave. “Go do some work,” he says gruffly, then turns back into the office, breaking their gaze.

*

Not even fifteen minutes after exiting Mona’s office, Dan’s dragging Ms Stone’s and Ms Harris’ cases up the stairs when he hears a sound he vividly remembers being traumatised by at an earlier date. The fact that he knows the deafening rumble from overhead is not an earthquake or avalanche does not make it any less chilling. Dan stops mid-flight of stairs and cranes his neck upwards, as if he could see through the roof of the hotel, then pierce through the steel of the plane into the cabin where Nikolai Novokoric is no doubt lounging in a reclining seat, sipping champagne.

He listens to the plane swoop low, then hit the tarmac, the engine stuttering, then cutting out entirely. With a desperate sigh, Dan continues his climb to the second floor, bags in tow.

*

Nikolai’s shrill, grating voice echoes off the wooden walls of the hotel from the moment he walks through the door. A shudder runs through Dan’s body as he hears those first few notes of posh, slightly Swiss bolstering. To escape, he goes to clean room two, the Fitzgerald’s room, whilst they’re out on a hike with Kaspar. They hadn’t been enthusiastic to go, but as they’re on an all expenses paid for trip, they couldn’t exactly argue with Mona when she’d scheduled it for them.

Dan closes the door behind him, breathing a long sigh. It feels like the first moment he’s been alone in days, although of course that’s not true. The Fitzgerald’s room is a tip, and it’s not all that surprising. Their mini fridge has been gutted, and there are packets of peanuts and mini liquor bottles scattered on every available surface. It’s a family room, with a double bed on one side, and a single bed against the window. The single bed is half-heartedly made, but the double is in complete disarray - the pillows are dumped on the floor and the sheets are stained with what looks like Dorito dust.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Dan mutters to himself.

He’s just setting to work when he realises that above the mundane cleaning noises, he can still hear Nikolai somewhere downstairs - his loud, boisterous laughter and fake enthusiasm. He needs a distraction, badly, but doesn’t have anything to hand. He supposes he could call his mother back, at last. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day after he arrived at The Secret of the Alps, so he owes her a phone call. He can do it as he works, perhaps that will make it easier to stomach.

With twitching fingers Dan pulls out his phone and dials his childhood home number, before he can talk himself out of it. She picks up on the third ring.

“Dan?”

He swallows, throat tightening. Is it possible that he already regrets phoning her when all she’s said is his name? “Hi, Mum.”

He sets the phone to loudspeaker, and crouches down to begin emptying the overflowing wastepaper bin. 

“I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

Wow, straight in with the guilt trip. No point wasting time, he supposes. “No. Sorry. I’ve been very busy here. Long work days.”

“I see.”

The phone crackles. It’s an excruciating sound. To dispel the awkwardness, Dan asks, “how’ve things been?”

She sighs loudly. “Fine, fine. Your father’s had that ear thing again.”

“Oh,” Dan says. He ties the rubbish bag tightly, then sets it by the door. “That’s too bad. Hope he gets it sorted.”

“Well, you know what he’s like about seeing doctors. Stubborn old man, just like his son.”

Dan knows, he  _knows_  it’s a provocation, intent on riling him up, but he still falls for it. “I’m  _not_  like him.”

“So listen to your mother, and come home,” his mother says, her voice slipping into the one Dan is so used to, sharp and cold. “I know what’s best for you, Daniel. You’re too young make such a hugely affecting decision. Throwing away your chance at a degree, it’s reckless! You’ll end up with no money, stuck in a low-paying job forever-”

“Money isn’t important to me, Mum.” He heads for the double bed, starting to throw pillows onto it. 

“It will be important to you when you run out of it,” his mum replies with a sniff.

“I have a job,” Dan says slowly, as if drawing out the syllables could help her understand the one thing she’s always failed to. In his hand he clasps a pillow, ready to be screamed into at any moment. “I have savings, and a place to live. I’m getting by just fine. I don’t see what the point is of forcing myself to toil through a degree in a subject I hate, to secure a job I’ll despise, racking up a load of debt.”

“You’re being naiive,” she says, for what must be the hundredth time. Dan sighs, flopping down onto on the floor by the Fitzgeralds’ bed, abandoning all attempt at continuing the clean. “The world won’t be kind to you if you’re unintelligent and unqualified. What do you suppose you’re going to do with yourself? Change beds in a hotel up God-knows-what-mountain forever? It’s just not realistic-”

Dan looks at the pillow he’s still holding, wondering if she’s somehow able to sense that he’s doing exactly that. “I didn’t say I would be doing this forever.”

Dan’s arms wrap around the pillow, miserably. He’s trembling slightly, because he detests so much as thinking about his future given that it’s so uncertain. He’s here now, for the foreseeable weeks ahead, and that’s some stability at least. He curls his fingers into the pillow’s soft material, trying to breathe through the anxiety attack he can feel brewing.

“It’s not too late for you to come back, you know,” his mum says; her voice is kinder now, the edges softened. It would be so easy to fall into the trap of her mumsy words, to run back down the mountain into her arms. She’d waste no time in calling up the University and re-enrolling him in his awful law degree, then locking him straight back into his prison-cell dorm room. “Your dad and I would sort it all out for you,” she says, like she can read his mind, “it hasn’t been too long, we could talk to people, chalk this up to a minor blip in judgement.”

There’s a pause. Dan mouths some things he wants to say, but won’t.  _Why can’t you try to understand me properly? Why don’t my opinions matter just because I’m young? Why would I want to be a lawyer, miserable in my office for the next fifty years just like Dad’s been, living for the weekend like that’s the way life’s supposed to be lived?_

“You know, I saw on Facebook that Beth is still single,” his mum says in a hesitant voice, and that’s the moment Dan decides the catch-up is over.

“I have to go, mum,” Dan says, proud that his voice cracks only a small amount as he reaches for the phone. “I’m in the middle of my shift.”

“Wait, Dan,” his mum says quickly, and something about the urgency of her voice makes him listen. His thumb hovers over the red ‘end call’ button. “I... had Vanessa and Darren round for lunch yesterday. They were talking about some scandal that’s been in the news. About that young heir of the Swiss Royal family. The gay one, you know.”

Icy fingers wrap around Dan’s heart. He reminds himself to remain calm, that there’s no way she could possibly know he has any involvement. “He’s bisexual, actually,” Dan corrects in a mock-casual voice. “Vanessa and Darren had fascinating insights into the situation I’m sure, but Mum, I really have to-”

“I didn’t think anything of it at first,” his mum continues, like Dan hadn’t spoken. There’s something wrong with her voice. It’s too shrill, too forced. “But I was thinking it over later, and I realised I  _knew_  the place this Sir Nicholas’ husband is rumoured to be. It’s the same mountain you told me your hotel is on.”

Dan’s eyes flutter closed. This surely can _not_  be happening. His mother barely remembers his birthday, let alone the specific mountain in the vast range of the Alps he decided to run off to.

“Huh,” Dan says, because anything else would be too incriminating.

“Oh, God,” his mother says in a small, strangled voice. “Oh, God, it’s you darling, isn’t it?”

“What’s me?”

Dan’s eyes squeeze together; but even as he wishes for anything else, he knows she’s guessed the truth. Her shame is like poison, seeping out of the phone into his ear, plucking Dan’s worst anxieties from their dark corners. 

“I always knew there was something you were keeping from me,” she half-wails in a soft, crackly voice. “Some reason you tucked away inside that you felt made you- you  _different_  from everyone else. Oh Dan, honey, this is so not the way to deal with it.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“I didn’t want to believe it when I had the thought, but I went back through those texts you sent me when you first arrived,” his mum says in a rush. “About the famous guest who you didn’t get along with, how you were dreading spending so much time alone with him. It’s him, isn’t it, Dan? It’s the one they’re all saying is- is- cheating. With a waiter.”

Dan lets the disdain in her voice slip through his skin, burrow into his well of shame that’s already deep and bubbling. 

He doesn’t respond for a while, weighing up all the things he could try and say to dissuade her, to convince her that she’s wrong. Instead, wearied by even the thought of exerting himself to insist such a lie is true, he just corrects her. 

“I’m a concierge, not a waiter.” His mum lets out a sort of sob-noise. “Mum,” Dan says quickly, frightened by her reaction suddenly, “you can’t tell anyone. Mum, do you understand?”

She breathes thickly. “Oh, God, Dan, this is- why did you-”

“It’s not like I planned it,” Dan says, feeling his hackles rise. “This is so typical of you, Mum, judging me from afar, all my choices and decisions when you have no idea about any of it-”

“So explain this to me!” she cries, still unbearably shrill. “Is this as bright of a decision as dropping out of university, or breaking up with your lovely girlfriend, or running away to scrub toilets up a mountain?! What on earth are you thinking, you daft-”

“I love him!” Dan interrupts, the words surging out of him like vomit. His eyes widen as soon as they’re out, as if he can see them hanging in the air before him, hovering like flies above the Fitzgeralds’ bag of trash. “I- I mean, I care about him. I don’t- I don’t know why I said- forget that. But I do care. His marriage is toxic, Mum. If you knew the truth, if the rest of the world knew - if Vanessa and Derren knew what Nikolai was  _like_ -”

“Then what?” his mum asks, weakly. “They’d fall in love with him, too?”

*

Dan leaves the Fitzgeralds room without finishing the clean; his conversation with his mother has left him too agitated to focus on something so mundane. He remembers now - too late, of course - why he’s been so reluctant to call her back. He had not left home on good terms with his parents - his father refused to even say goodbye. They’ve always been hideously conservative in their views, so Dan with his liberal politics and marginally effeminate ‘emo’ dress sense growing up had never really been their idea of the perfect son. 

Through school he’d rebelled against them, which only made everyone unhappy, so once he was older, he tried the opposite - to do what they wanted, to conform to their ideals of being a straight, cisgender young version of his father, on track to be a lawyer. But this was never good enough for them either, probably because it made Dan so miserable that he never truly gave it all he’d got. It’s always seemed to Dan that nothing he did would ever quite please them, so he’d run off instead, done the thing he knew would upset them and said ‘fuck the consequences’. There’s no point trying to explain his actions to either of them - not that his father would so much as speak to him, probably - because Dan doesn’t have answers or reasons for his actions right now, and that’s not what they want to hear. 

To distract himself from the thousands of pounding, unpleasant thoughts rampaging through his mind, Dan heads for the stairs, intending to try and creep through the mezzanine without being seen. At a furtive glance, Dan sees the lounge area is rammed with people, some of which are spilling out onto the balcony, through the doors that have been opened. The sleet storm is dying down, but it’s not completely over, meaning that some speckles of icy water are flying in.

Dan doesn’t know for sure of course, but he highly doubts that Mona would have been the one to allow this, so it’s probably a Nikolai-request. He’s almost across the room, at the top of the stairs leading down to the lobby, when Mona spots him.

“Dan!” she near-shrieks, sounding seconds away from an even wilder tone of voice. “Dan, could you come here, please? Now?”

Suppressing a loud scream, Dan fixes a wobbly smile in place, and heads towards her. He notes that every single chair is occupied - people have pulled out beanbag chairs, trunks and stools, and crammed around the scatter of tables. It’s unnerving to see the room so teeming with bodies when it’s usually empty enough that Dan could dance through it in his underwear (provided Louise didn’t choose the wrong moment to look through the serving hatch).

Some of the people are familiar to Dan and some are new to him. Most of the people he doesn’t recognise are huddled together in matching slate grey suits, or grouped around enormous cameras, microphones in their hands. The Fitzgeralds have managed to snag their own table in the midst of it all, looking far too excited (minus their daughter, who is plugged into her iPhone, looking extremely like Dan at that age whenever he was forcibly taken to a social situation he didn’t want to be at). The Fitzgeralds are talking animatedly at Max the security man, who has squished all of his beefy, six-foot-two frame into a beanbag, arms folded, staring stoically ahead. 

Ms Stone and Ms Harris are here as well, sipping tea and looking mildly alarmed - but interested - at their unusual surroundings. Dan also spots Cornelia in the corner by the TV, talking into a mobile phone and looking decidedly unhappy about something Dan is sure would push anyone except her into crisis mode. Bryony and Hazel are leaning through the serving hatch laughing about something with Louise. PJ is flitting about, stuck to the walls with his camera to his eye, photographing seemingly everything from the sleet stains on the wooden floor to the whiskers decorating Max’s chin. And Nikolai is here, of course, strolling in through the balcony doors in his long stylish coat, brushing sleet from his shoulders like it should have known better than to settle there.

When he sees Dan, he grins widely, and Dan senses the oncoming hug before it happens. Engulfed in Nikolai’s cold, damp arms, the only thought pumping through Dan’s treacherous mind is, most helpfully,  _your husband fucked my brains out last night_.

He manages not to let this slip off his tongue, mercifully. When Nikolai releases him, he grins again. “My favourite concierge!” he bellows, slapping Dan on the shoulder. Dan wonders if Louise was right about him instantly forgetting the names of people he doesn’t care about. “I was wondering where you were being kept! Didn’t let the place fall off the cliff then, I see.”

“Hah,” Dan says, managing a weak smile as he surreptitiously rubs his shoulder. “Didn’t get the chance. Mona took over responsibility before disaster struck.”

“Atta boy,” Nikolai says; his weird accent does not suit the phrase and he seems to know it, judging by the way he clears his throat and claps his hands, distracting attention. “Right everyone, I know we said an outdoor shoot would be preferable, but the weather is against us, so I suggest you set up right here. I’ve been informed that  _he_ will be five minutes.”

Dan badly hopes that the ‘he’ in question is the abominable snowman, but somehow he doubts it. 

“...doing my best to make sure everyone has a drink and a place to sit, but you’ll need to help me keep an eye…” 

Dan realises, belatedly, that he’s been so busy half-glaring at Nikolai’s big, dumb head that he hasn’t been hearing a word Mona is whispering to him.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, of course.” Dan leans in a bit closer to her. “Any idea what this is all about?”

“None whatsoever,” Mona replies, then darts away from him to where a slate-grey-suit man is beckoning her.

Dan sighs, scanning the crowd of people for any signs that someone might be in need of further refreshment. Nikolai has, thankfully, gone over to talk to Cornelia, so Dan is free of further sickening smalltalk with the man. He turns around, hoping to escape and hide in the kitchen so Louise can explain what the fuck is going on, when he bumps straight into Martyn Lester. He looks… completely different to this morning. His hair is neat and coiffed, he’s wearing a suit and black tie, and he has an earpiece over one ear.

“Afternoon, Dan,” he says with a wry smile. “Having fun at the party?”

“The host isn’t one of my best friends,” Dan says carefully, inclining his head towards Nikolai. It’s a bit of a risky comment, given that this man is Nikolai’s brother in law, but he’s hoping Louise wasn’t fibbing when she claimed Martyn loathed him.

Martyn follows Dan’s inclination, smile falling away. He looks quickly at the ground. “Yeah, don’t blame you.”

“What’s with the secret agent get up?” Dan asks, gesturing to Martyn’s new outfit. He’s not sure what it is, but something about Martyn Lester gives of an inherently calming vibe, like he’s radiating the single statement ‘I have everything under control’. Perhaps it’s an older brother thing. Or, more likely, it’s because he vaguely resembles Phil with his confident stance, and exhausted-yet-amused-by-everyone’s-ignorance air. “You planning on taking him out?”

Martyn sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Wouldn’t say that too loud. Max has the ears of a Silverwing and the biceps of a Silverback.”

Dan looks at him blankly.

“One’s a bat, one’s a gorilla,” Martyn explains.

“Oh,” Dan says, “I, uh, dropped out of uni.”

Martyn looks at him strangely. “Are you blaming your abandoned law degree for not knowing your species’ of animals by heart?”

“Well, no, I-” Dan breaks off, replaying the question in confusion. “How did you know it was a law degree?”

“Right, attention everyone,” Nikolai booms, striding into the centre of the room, whipping his coat off as he goes. He tosses the garment in seemingly no particular direction and Hazel lunges forwards to catch it before it hits the ground. Nikolai doesn’t seem to notice. “My soon to be ex-husband has finally decided to emerge from his lair, so we’ll start the interview in one minute, then move on to photos, then...”

Dan stops listening, too intent on scanning the room for Phil. He spots him at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, looking perfect and polished - an action figure intent on some actual action, but being forced to remain pretty and dust-free, displayed on a shelf.

Martyn leaves Dan’s side with a murmured excuse, at once heading to stand with his brother. Across the room, Dan notices Cornelia notice Phil’s appearance as well, and take a step in his direction, but upon seeing Martyn, she stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide and round, then turns abruptly away again. Dan frowns at the peculiar behaviour he’s just witnessed, vaguely recalling something Louise mentioned about she and Martyn having to argue out publicist-related drama between Phil and Nikolai a great deal when Martyn still worked for Phil.

At present, Martyn looks a lot like he still does work for Phil; he’s currently steering Phil into the centre of the room, pushing quite firmly as he obviously doesn’t want to move. Dan tries to catch Phil’s eye, to smile sympathetically, but Phil won’t look at him. He notes that Phil is wearing a tightly knotted scarf-thing around his throat, which was smart of him. Dan knows far too well that the hickey that scarf hides is, as of last night, just as vibrant as ever.

Martyn stands Phil on a small wooden crate that’s been put out, and Nikolai hops deftly up onto another at his side, unfazed. Everything about Phil’s body language screams discomfort, only growing worse with all the eyes on him. Along with the pang of sympathy that surges up in Dan’s chest, swoops the echo of what his mum said earlier - what  _Dan_  had said earlier even - how that ‘L’ word had just slipped out. Effortless, like it had been poised on the tip of his tongue for days. 

Dan’s never used that word for anyone outside of family before, not even Beth. It must have been an accidental slip-up, born of a desperate desire not to let his mum win the argument, but how bizarre that it chose now to make a random appearance. He cannot possibly have fallen for Phil of all people, the man who consistently infuriates and aggravates him, who has a husband that would feel no remorse if he stepped on Dan’s face on his way out of the building. To fall in love - even the  _word_ is terrifying - with anyone, let alone the person he should resist developing any feelings for whatsoever, is not comprehensible. He refuses to so much as dare to believe it. 

Even so, Dan wouldn’t wish this kind of horrible, judgemental scrutiny on anyone, let alone Phil (who he does, admittedly, care for - he wasn’t lying about that).

Martyn nods at Phil seriously, telling him something with those matching blue eyes alone, and then steps aside. Nikolai glances at Phil, who doesn’t look back, and sighs. “Okay. First question.”

Hands shoot up; there are four reporters as far as Dan can see - each with their own mini team of tech crew. The first is a woman in a bright red blazer, who Nikolai gestures to with a silky wave of his hand.

“Sir Nikolai, how are you feeling in the wake of your husband’s desire to divorce?”

“Devastated, of course,” Nikolai says sombrely, hands clasped at his waist. “I’ve tried to give Philip all he could ever wish for, but evidently, that was not enough.”

Dan’s hands curl into fists; he looks at Phil, wondering what he’ll add, but he’s just staring at the floor, lips thin and tight. Nikolai gestures to the next reporter, an attractive, honey-haired woman with dark lipstick and a darker fitted blazer tight on her skinny waist.

“Sir Nikolai,” she says in a low voice, ducking her head in a small bow, “would you address the recent rumours of your husband’s adultery?

Nikolai laughs, straightening his tie. “No more than idle gossip sold for a price,” he says airily; Dan tries to keep very still, but he gets the sense that several people are watching him closely. Probably Louise, for one. Nikolai laughs again in a long trill. “For starters, who on Earth would he be cheating with up here-”

Phil’s loosening his scarf, drawing Nikolai’s attention, making him break off before the sentence ends. It’s a subtle move, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Dan catches it. Nikolai pauses, zeroing in on something that Dan can’t see, that nobody can see except him, standing right beside Phil, but that Dan can easily guess at. 

What the fuck is Phil playing at? Dan wonders, heartbeat pounding in his ears. It’s almost like he  _wants_  Nikolai to see- Oh.

In a flash, Dan understands. He does want Nikolai to see the bruise. He wants him to know that the media had been right, there is a ‘someone’. Phil wants to hurt him. Nikolai is still not saying anything. There’s a shadow passing over his sharp, handsome features. And then, in the next instant, it’s vanished, flicked away out of the balcony doors, his easy, carefully morose expression back in position. Dan lets out a sigh of relief, quietly. Phil re-knots the scarf.

Nikolai gestures to a man with a dark widow’s peak cutting a severe expression into his forehead. “Next question?”

“Sir Nikolai, it’s a pleasure,” the man says in a deep, slimy voice; Dan likens it to gooey, dark molasses. “What prompted the sudden split?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Nikolai says with a sad smile. He looks at Phil, who is still staring straight down at the ground, and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “But alas, Philip is the only one who could answer that question. I’m still very much in love.”

Dan snorts, the sound loud and obvious in the hushed room. He brings his hand to his mouth, immediately feigning a coughing fit. As he’s spluttering, he snags Cornelia’s eye across the room; she’s laughing silently at him.

“Yes, my question is for Philip?” the large, bespectacled lady Nikolai has waved to says, peering over her glasses at Phil. Phil doesn’t move, but Dan senses a collective intake of breath shudder through the room, which is then held in thirty or so sets of lungs. “How has your marriage to Nikolai been?”

Slowly, Phil lifts his head. He stares the lady full in the face; there’s no mistaking the white hot fury in his eyes now that they’re visible. “Go to hell,” he spits out. “Maybe you’ll experience it for yourself.”

A moment of shocked silence stretches, elastic and loaded, and then it snaps, the room erupting into noise. The reporters abandon Nikolai’s ‘hands up’ system and start angrily yelling their questions, shouting over each other as chairs scrape backwards and Nikolai’s various staff members jump up to keep everything under control. The most angry of the lot is the reporter Phil told to go to hell, perhaps understandably, and she charges towards the makeshift podiums, only to trip on her way and launch forwards into Nikolai’s legs.

Nikolai stumbles and falls backwards, landing directly on his ass on the wooden floor behind. Shrieks of distress echo through the room, most of them coming from Mrs Fitzgerald, and seemingly everybody rushes to help Nikolai up, except Dan and Phil, who both stand rigidly in the midst of the commotion, turning to lock eyes across people’s bobbing heads.

Finally, Dan is able to send him that sympathetic smile, but Phil just looks desperately miserable, and doesn’t manage to return it. So instead, Dan mouths ‘you fucked that up’. The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches then, just a tad, but still enough for Dan to know he got through. Warm, syrupy pride courses through Dan’s veins, just from knowing he’s able to make Phil feel even a tiny bit better in such a horrendous situation. Phil turns to watch Nikolai being dusted off for a moment, and as he looks away, Dan realises what the sweet, soft, melted-butter-on-toast feeling consuming him must be. He  _loves_  this pompous idiot with a fuse shorter than most matches.

Phil fixes that gellid blue gaze back on him and rolls his eyes in regard to Nikolai’s theatrics. And right then, in that moment Dan knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s completely, Royally fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eighteen next friday at 8pm GMT :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of twists n turns!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to @lilchupacabragirl who is goin through it but i love her and wanna cheer her up <3
> 
> ALSO
> 
> Next chapter is the one before last xxx

It’s 4 o’clock, and Dan is so tired he can barely think straight; he has no idea how he’s going to get through the rest of his shift. He wishes he could blame Phil for keeping him up so late, but Dan thinks he might have literally kicked Phil in the balls if he’d tried to go to sleep at a reasonable hour after making Dan wait all day for an insinuated ravishing.

Everyone is still in the mezzanine lounge, though the press conference ended abruptly after Nikolai’s little tumble. Phil and Nikolai are now sat at separate but adjacent tables, both surrounded by their own herd of grey-suited people, all of whom are muttering things at the men with severe expressions on their faces. On the tables are a smattering of official-looking papers, and, on Nikolai’s table, a jewellery box that Dan assumes contains that massive fucking diamond ring.

Martyn is beside Dan, at the edge of the room leant against the wood-panelled wall, observing. His arms are wrapped around his middle as he watches the grey-suits list their terms and stipulations, jabbing at the papers to tell Phil and Nikolai where to sign. Another two minutes go by and Martyn shifts from foot to foot, sighing impatiently. Dan doesn’t blame him; this has been going on for hours. Apparently divorce is not a simple procedure.

As Dan is about to feign needing to pee just for something to do, he notices someone winding their way through the crowd towards them. It’s Cornelia, in a big patterned jumper and ugly plaid school skirt, somehow looking like she both rolled through a charity shop and then ran down a fashion show runway. Atop her nest of vibrant red hair are two John Lennon-style coloured spectacles in a light yellow.

At the sight of her, Martyn freezes, pushing off the wall to stand straighter. “So,” Cornelia says in a low voice, eyeing Martyn with a smug smile. “You’ve come crawling back.”

Martyn’s looking rather flustered, if Dan’s not mistaken. “Corndog,” Martyn manages to spit out. She scowls at him, obviously disliking the nickname. “Still changing nappies for the Royal Toddler, I see.”

“Least I have the balls to stick it out,” Cornelia fires back. 

Dan’s starting to feel uneasy; there’s something rather worryingly familiar about this heated exchange.

Martyn takes a step towards her, brow creased. “You used to say you wanted to leave with me. I’m not sure chickening out of your word counts as ‘ballsy’.”

At the sight of Cornelia’s incensed responding expression, Dan jumps in, sensing something - though he’s not sure what - is about to kick off. 

“Hi, Cornelia,” he says quickly. 

She turns to Dan, deflating, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Oh. Hi, Dan. How’ve you been?”

“Um, y-yeah, fine thanks,” Dan replies, eyes flitting to Martyn, who is now turning his face away and tutting, rather like a bratty kid.

“I see you’ve met my arch nemesis,” she says, but if Dan’s not mistaken, there’s a smile hidden beneath her words.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Corndog,” Martyn scoffs, though now his mouth is twitching in a smile as well. “Run along, then. Don’t you have a posh twat to fawn over?”

Cornelia grins, then takes a step into Martyn’s personal bubble. It’s such an abrupt, intimate move that Dan almost looks away, sure he’s about to witness something inappropriate.

“Missed you too, Martian,” she murmurs, sending a very deliberate look towards his mouth; she’s a full foot shorter than Martyn, but something about her bold, confident stance as she looks up into his face, unblinking, exudes intimidation. 

She steps away, nodding quickly at Dan before heading back towards Nikolai, phone already pressed to her ear. Dan turns to Martyn, eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

“Err…”

“Look, Dan, let’s make a deal,” Martyn says gruffly, though his cheeks are a deep pink. “You keep shtum about that... ill-advised quasi-affair of the past...” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on Cornelia. “...and I won’t bring up your little tryst with my married brother. Cool?” 

Dan’s head whips towards him so fast he thinks he might sprain a neck muscle. “Excuse me?”

Gluey and reluctant, Martyn’s gaze slides to him. “I know, Dan.”

Dan’s eyes widen, and he stumbles in his haste to back up from the conversation. “What?! Don’t be- I’m not-” Martyn says nothing, simply maintains his weary stare. Dan's been through enough Lester-arguments to know when to admit defeat. “How did you know?”

Martyn snorts, as if the question is absurd. “I can only assume the thin oxygen is making everyone else thick, because to me it’s glaringly obvious. You’re just his type, for one - dimples, curls, adorable, funny without meaning to be - not to mention he hasn’t shut up about you since I got within earshot. ‘ _Let’s go where Dan can’t hear’, ‘that reminds me of something Dan said’, ‘can we try and make sure Nikolai doesn’t talk to Dan’,_  blah blah blah, Dan, Dan, Dan.”

The information stuffs itself through Dan’s ear canal in a great flurry, meaning it takes a while to wriggle into Dan’s brain. As Martyn’s snippets of Phil’s psyche pile up, they begin pressing on the backs of Dan’s eyes, creating a throbbing ache. It doesn’t make sense. Why would Phil be prattling on about Dan right now? He’s got so much else to deal with; surely thoughts of Dan are on the back burner.

“So he… told you about us?” Dan asks, feeling about ten centimetres tall.

“Not exactly.” Martyn looks to where Phil is currently signing something with what looks like deliberate slowness, presumably to piss the grey-suits off. “But he said he’s having feelings for someone who isn’t Nik, and no offence Dan, but there’s not a lot of options for him up here apart from the nervous, skinny kid that looks at him like he’s Jesus risen.”

Dan opens his mouth to argue, but realises he has no points to make. He shuts it again with a snap, and turns back to stare at Phil. “You and Cornelia… that didn’t work out, I’m assuming.”

Martyn stiffens just a bit, obviously not expecting the question. He doesn’t reply for a while, and Dan wonders if he might have crossed a line. “People like her… they tend to see people like me through dollar-green tinted spectacles.”  

“I’m sure that’s a clever metaphor and all, but could you spell it out for me? Like I said, I’m a uni drop-out,” Dan replies, rubbing his temples to try and ease the headache.

“You need to stop belittling yourself,” Martyn says, sternly. “Uni doesn’t make intelligence, it’s just a place people go to develop it.”

Dan says nothing, simply sighing and folding his arms like he’s not going to go and ruminate on that statement for several hours.

“Corn hates her job, but she gets a shitload for it,” Martyn says eventually. “She acts like she wants to give it up, to stick her finger up at Nikolai and do something more worthwhile, but it’s all in her head. She likes the lifestyle too much. She won’t give it up for someone like me.”

Something insistent is tugging hard at the veins leading from Dan’s heart; he pictures a growling puppy, intent on a new chew toy. His hand moves to rub at the spot on his chest, beneath which he can feel his heart beating. 

“You don’t know that for sure,” Dan says stubbornly, “maybe if you’d stuck around for long enough to let her decide, she would’ve chosen you.”

Dan can feel Martyn’s sympathetic stare boring into him. “Yeah. Maybe.”

To steer away from this horrendous conversation, Dan clears his throat, straightening up and nodding towards Phil and Nikolai. “Looks like it might be coming to an end.”

“Thank the Lord. Poor Phil, he’s so done.”

“He’s had to do too much of this, I’d imagine,” Dan says, and Martyn nods emphatically.

“You’ve no idea. Still, once he gets out of this place he’ll be able to get some normalcy back.”

At first, the sentence only skims over Dan’s skin, barely grazing him. He’s too focused on Phil’s deep frown line, worried about how all this will age him before his time. And then he replays Martyn’s breezy statement, letting it sink into his flesh.

“Gets out of this place?” Dan repeats, slowly.

Martyn glances across at him. “Yeah. Y’know, once the divorce is finalised.” Dan doesn’t bother to stop the confusion from furrowing his brow. He’s already established several times that he’s not the brightest bulb, once more won’t hurt. “You didn’t think he was gonna stay in this hotel once he finally shakes Nikolai, did you? He won’t be able to afford that massive suite anymore for one thing. Plus, no offence but there’s not a whole lot on offer up here for an unmarried, uneducated twenty-six-year-old, y’know?”

 _Of course_ , Dan thinks, the anxiety-worms crawling up his arms,  _Phil’s going to leave_. 

He has no right to be surprised; it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Phil hates it up here, he’s never been shy about expressing that. Dan has sat and listened to him whine about his circumstances multiple times, heard him complain that Dan threw away his freedom and that he’d do anything to have what Dan gave up. Dan should have seen this coming a mile off. It’s as obvious as a huge snowball would be, were he to look out of the window and see one barrelling towards him. But he didn’t see it coming. And now, stupidly, he feels like he’s about to cry.

“Excuse me,” Dan mutters to Martyn, and then scurries off before any dumb tears can leak out.

He’s vaguely aware that several people are watching him go, but he ignores them all, focused on his destination, back to the Fitzgeralds room which he's left uncleaned, where he can lock himself away for a while and cry in private, as he’s so used to doing in this place.

*

When Dan opens the door to the Fitzgeralds room, their teenage daughter is sitting on her bed.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Dan says, flustered, “I thought you and your parents were still downstairs, I’ll leave you-”

He stops abruptly, noticing the sheer panic on her face. She’s frozen, her laptop open in front of her, and beside that, a Louis Vuitton bag that Dan has definitely seen before, and definitely not in her hands. A voice is coming from her laptop speaker, slightly tinny and distorted, but familiar nonetheless. As the silence settles between them, Dan is able to pick out words. Bizarrely, the voice sounds just like his mother.

_“...is this as bright of a decision as dropping out of university, or breaking up with your lovely girlfriend, or running away to scrub toilets up a mountain?! What on earth are you thinking, you daft-”_

_“I love him!”_

An invisible punch lands itself squarely in the centre of Dan’s chest, winding him. He’d know his own annoying voice anywhere. 

“How did you…what is this?” 

The sound of Dan’s actual voice seems to jolt her into animation. She scrambles for the laptop, clumsy in her attempt to shut off the recording.

_“I- I mean, I care about him. I don’t- I don’t know why I said- forget that. But I do care.”_

As he listens to his own pathetic attempt to backtrack over his blurted love confession, Dan’s horrified gaze lands back on the Louis Vuitton bag, finally recognising it. 

“That’s Phil’s,” he whispers, bewildered. 

The Fitzgerald girl is jabbing at various keys, but the recording continues playing; Dan slumps against the doorframe.

_“His marriage is toxic, Mum. If you knew the truth, if the rest of the world knew - if Vanessa and Derren knew what Nikolai was like-”_

As a last resort, she slams the lid of her laptop closed, bright red in the face, eyes fixed on Dan in alarm. “Listen,” she garbles, “there’s a journalism Code of Conduct, and I read it cover to cover, and as long as I’m not harming anyone I’m allowed to report on things I see-”

“You,” Dan says, weakly. “You’re the leak.”

“I’m  _undercover_ ,” she corrects, sitting up straight and tucking her blue hair behind her ears. Her cheeks are stained pink, but she juts her chin out nonetheless in an attempt at assertion. “I’m a reporter in training. I run a blog about Niky.”

“ _Niky_?” Dan repeats, already revolted.

“It’s called The Renegade Royal,” she says proudly. “I came up with that. It’s clever, isn’t it?”

In lieu of answering that absurd question, Dan gathers himself together, and stalks over to the bed. She flinches; Dan rolls his eyes, hands coming up in front of him to show he’s about as scary as a snowflake. He grabs the Louis Vuitton bag by the handles and with a quick glance inside - bundled up ski-skins, sunglasses, a small bottle of sunscreen, some sugar packets - he confirms that yes, this is Phil Novokoric’s bag. 

“For God’s- reporters don’t  _steal_ people’s personal belongings,” Dan scolds, zipping the bag shut. “That’s super illegal.”

She blanches at the word ‘illegal’, seeming to deflate slightly, but she puffs herself back up pretty quick. “Uh, he  _deserves_  it. He’s breaking his marriage vows! With  _you_ , I might add.”

She folds her arms across her chest, her wrinkled nose and sneer adequately expressing her feelings over Phil’s decision to pass up Nikolai for someone like Dan, even on a circumstantial basis.

“So you steal his stuff?” Dan asks, feeling his hackles rise. “Bug the room and record me having a private call with my  _mum_?”

Again, the girl flinches, guilt flashing across her features. “W-well, I didn’t know you’d call her, did I? I was just trying to catch you and  _him_  in the act somewhere. There’s other recording devices, obviously, in other places-”

“What?!”

She fidgets. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Dan’s legs buckle, and he sits heavily on the edge of the bed, making her scuttle backwards in alarm. Dan puts his head in his hands. “Could this get any more complicated?”

She makes a face. “Uh, you’re not, like, crying are you?”

Dan lifts his head, sighing heavily, then fixes the girl with a steely gaze. “Did your parents put you up to this?”

She snorts. “God, no. Have you met my parents? They’re halfwits. They keep saying they’re gonna ‘sell their story’ to the paper, but they don’t have a clue how, or even have anything worth selling.”

“Right,” Dan says, ignoring all her horrible words, about her own  _parents_  no less, “they’re not behind this, which makes you the sole crook. I suggest, if you don’t want me telling your mum and dad, the manager of the hotel, Phil, Nikolai, a bunch of real journalists, and some scary-looking lawyers that you’re a sneaky little spy, creeping around recording everyone in their private rooms, that you tell me your name, and show me this awful blog of yours.”

She stares at him dumbly, her defiance melting away. Her arms slacken, and she loses the tension in her body, mind obviously reeling. “M-my parents? And- and  _Niky_?”

“Oh, and the police of course,” Dan tacks on for emphasis, patting the Louis Vuitton bag in his lap. “They’ll want to know where this designer bag Phil’s been looking for went.”

She eyes the bag like it’s transformed into a gaggle of writhing snakes. “Hannah!” she cries, suddenly panicked, then scrambles for her laptop. “My name’s Hannah Fitzgerald, I’m sixteen, I’m from Durham, England. Please don’t report me- look, here’s my blog, I haven’t even shared anything that bad yet, see?”

Dan reaches for the laptop, but she resists him actually taking it out of her hands; for a few seconds, they have a small, silent tug of war, and then Dan relents, because what on Earth is he  _doing_  trying to wrestle a computer off a sixteen-year-old? Instead, he peers at the screen while she holds it, and under the watch of her beady, panicked eye, scrolls down her blog with the trackpad.

Mostly, it’s just photos of Nikolai. A few glamour shots, of his shirtless form in black and white, holding some kind of big feathered fan. A few paparazzi photos, of Nikolai in Gucci sunglasses and Supreme hoodies, sipping Starbucks as he walks through the streets of New York or Paris or Mumbai.

The two most recent posts consist of long, rambly chunks of text where Hannah has obviously realised her lucky situation, being in the same hotel as Phil Novokoric, and gone to scream about it in caps lock on Tumblr. Dan doesn’t miss that the post has over twenty-thousand notes.

One of the posts, from just yesterday, is entitled ‘Update One: More Coming Soon!’. Dan clicks this one, steeling himself for the worst. It reads:

_‘SO I’ve been up in the Alps with you-know-who >:( for a whole two days now - eeeek! I have seen and heard a LOT, and am planning on sharing with you all once I get everything together. ATM I’m working on getting some ~juicier~ evidence, but I  **can confirm**  that Philip ‘grumpface’ Lester (I famously refuse to acknowledge him as a true Novokoric, see my FAQ) is **CHEATING!!!!** on Nikolai!!!! I have seen it with my  **own two eyes**. I’ve already been in touch with The Sun, The Star, The Daily Mirror, and The Daily Mail, as well as Perez Hilton, The T (the drama YouTube channel) and a few other big Nikolai blogs.’_

Dan’s eyes flutter closed, and he forces himself to breathe deeply, so he won’t yell at this literal child for being such an ignorant demon. When he reopens them, she’s watching him nervously, but makes no move to take the laptop away.

_‘All the mags and papers say they need ‘evidence’ (photos, audio clips, vids, etc) so I’ve been working on collecting some. Stay tuned for my next update, I have sooooo much to show and tell you all. I **always**  said Phil was wrong for Niky (as most of you know haha) and I guess I was right!! Dw guys I’m not gonna let him mess our boy about <3 For now… here’s some sneaky preview pics ;) Follow me on Tumblr, Twitter and Insta for the next update x_

_Hannah F <3’_

When he gets to the end, Dan feels nauseous. He scrolls down, and there are three images. One is from yesterday morning, right after Phil had phoned Nikolai and told him it was completely over. In the photo, Phil is sat at the table in the mezzanine lounge, and Dan is leaning into his space, hands planted on the table beside Phil’s mug of coffee. Phil is smiling serenely at him, but Dan’s face is obscured by the angle. He tries to remember what he was saying in the moment. Something like ‘you dick-brain’, probably.

The next photo is of Phil tucking a tiny green umbrella behind Dan’s ear. Phil’s forearm, reaching to place the umbrella, is blocking Dan’s face again.

The final photo is taken from above, over the lip of the mezzanine, and Dan remembers it vividly. Dan is serving guests at the front desk, and Phil is beside him, hand placed on his arm, standing way too close. Dan’s staring into those ridiculously blue eyes, and even though the high angle means his expression is out of view, Dan can feel, somehow, the mesmerism radiating from his body language alone. How embarrassing. 

“You can’t even see your face in those pics,” Hannah points out, like that makes it okay.

Dan huffs a strained sigh, straightening up. “I assume that’s because you were planning some huge reveal of my identity in your next post?”

Hannah shifts uncomfortably. “My followers have a right to-” Dan just glares at her, hard, and she shuts up. “I’ll delete them all. I’ll tell them I was lying. Please don’t report me, I can’t be arrested for this-”

“Delete it all now,” Dan says, not fucking about anymore. “In front of me. The recordings too.”

Hannah nods quickly, gulping, and turns the laptop to face her. Dan shuffles up the bed to sit beside her, intending to make sure she bleaches her hard drive clean of every last scrap.

*

Dan closes the door of Mona’s office behind him, eyes prickling. His conversation with Mona had gone even worse than he’d expected it to.  _It was the only option_ , he tells himself for the hundredth time. The stress of this whole situation is entirely too much; the anxiety worms have begun gnawing holes through his skin, which was never very thick to begin with. Hannah was a manageable example of what Dan can foresee being a worsening problem if he continues down the current path.

For now, he pushes his conversation with Mona to the back of his mind, intending to pull it out again later, in bed, when he has time to pick it apart. Dan picks up the Louis Vuitton bag he’d hidden just out of sight behind a decorative fake plant in the lobby, and heads for the stairs. On his way down here from the Fitzgeralds room, he’d managed to sneak through the crowd of people still gathered in the lobby without being seen; as he attempts to do the same now on his way back through, he notes that neither Phil nor Nikolai are amongst the gaggle of people still grouped around tables and slumped in beanbags.

It probably means nothing, Dan tells himself sternly, and keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone on his way to the stairs. He jogs up to the top floor, surprised at his ability to do this with minimal exertion - he must be getting used to the journey - and goes straight to Phil’s door. Not bothering to knock, Dan lets himself in, determined to have this out as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

“I have your bag,” Dan announces, marching straight into the room. He turns to face the figure lounging on the bed, mouth open to address Phil. Abruptly, he snaps it shut again when he takes in the sight of Nikolai Novokoric smirking back at him, hands folded in his lap. “Oh,” Dan says, blood pooling in his cheeks. “S-sorry, Sir. I just… I’m returning Mister Nov-”  _Nope._  “Your hus-”  _Nope._ “Um, Phil’s bag.”

Dan holds it up for Nikolai to see. ‘Nothing untoward going on here’, Dan imagines puppeting the bag to say. Resisting this strange urge, Dan instead places the bag gently down on a chair, and turns, heart thumping, to leave.

“Say, Dan, is it?” Nikolai asks breezily.

 _Shit._  Dan turns, smile straining. “That’s right. Did you need something?”

Nikolai’s cool gaze washes over him, head to toe. “How about a chat?”

He scoots to the edge of the bed, then pats the space beside him. Dan really and truly does not want to go and seat himself beside this despicable man for ‘a chat’, especially not on the bed he’d rolled around on for hours with Phil last night, but he can’t think of a viable excuse not to. So, he drags himself over and gingerly perches on the edge, leaving as much space between them as he can get away with.

For an excruciatingly long moment, Nikolai says nothing. He simply aims a calm, diamond-hard half-smile at Dan, his grey eyes tracking every inch of his face for some unknowable trait. 

“So,” he says at last. “You’re fucking my husband.” Dan’s mouth drops open, instantly aflame, and Nikolai laughs. “Gosh, would you look at that blush. You are cute, aren’t you? I can see how easy it would be to snap you up.”

“I- I don’t know what you’ve heard, but-”

“Oh, please,” Nikolai interrupts, snorting. “Spare me the terrible attempt at denial.  _Someone_  gave Philip an impressively deep love bite - it wasn’t me, and I can say with relative surety that it wasn’t that large, clumsy Swiss mountain goat herd, or the Northern chap with the shrill wife and bacon bits in his beard. That leaves just one other member of the male-identifying species that could have done it - Philip is  _such_  a stickler about being exclusively into boys, it really is so tiresome.”

Dan is too terrified to be offended by Nikolai’s countless forays into non-PC territory. He watches, eyes wide and panicked, as Nikolai crosses his legs in a sigh, then leans back on his hands, still keeping Dan caught in the crosshairs of his steely gaze.

“Oh, for goodness sake, there’s no need to look so petrified,” Nikolai says with an accompanying eye roll. “I can’t publicly accuse Philip of adultery with anyone without answering to a hundred far more substantial accusations of cheating myself. I suppose I’m just surprised he had the balls.”

Dan swallows, glancing around the room in case he’s missed Phil being in here somewhere, possibly tied up and unable to voice his muffled screams. 

“W-we didn’t mean for it to happen,” Dan finds himself saying, mostly in an attempt to stall until he can think of a plan. Or an escape route. “We just sort of... couldn’t stay away from each other.” 

Nikolai snorts with laughter again. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what he told you.”

Confused, Dan flips this statement over in his mind several times, but finds he still cannot comprehend it. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Dan,” Nikolai says in a very punchable, patronising way; he places a gentle hand on Dan’s shoulder, one that Dan feels immediately burning through his shirt material. Dan shifts, trying to express his discomfort, but Nikolai makes no move to remove it. “You poor cherub. You don’t truly believe that Philip is interested in you, do you?”

Dan says nothing, but inside, his muscles contract, squeezing his organs into a big, pulsating jumble. Nikolai’s expression turns to pity, and Dan feels suddenly as if he needs to sprint far away, down the mountain, and never return.

“All of this,” Nikolai says, gesturing to Dan’s entire being, “is his way of getting back at  _me_ , sweetheart.” The vile endearment sticks to Dan like a leech attaching itself to his skin. “It’s horribly cruel, to both of us, really. Philip’s got such a lot of buried anger in him.” 

Nikolai sighs, head shaking from side to side. He’s changed since earlier, now wearing a high-necked, charcoal fleece, one that looks as though it’s been picked out of a new designer range of ‘winter-wear’. It gives him a severe, statuesque look, elongating his neck, sharpening his angles. 

“I’m only telling you this to spare your feelings, you understand,” Nikolai continues gravely, gazing right into Dan’s eyes, “for months the man’s been  _desperate_  to get ‘revenge’ on me, for whatever crimes he’s decided I committed during our marriage. Personally, I feel I was awfully good to him, considering the numerous diva tantrums I put up with, but even so. It appears he felt the need to hurt me, and he had no qualms about using an innocent member of staff to do it.”

 _It’s not true_ , Dan’s brain is screaming at him, but he can’t quite let that placate him. It’s a seductive thought, to gather all the hatred he feels for Nikolai, all of the awful things he knows Nikolai has done, and use them as evidence to back up the idea that Nikolai is simply lying. But once again, doubt creeps in; Dan just doesn’t know Phil well enough to be sure. Nikolai has been  _married_  to the man. For years. Dan’s known him a fraction of that time, and a great deal of it was spent arguing with him.

Nikolai’s hand squeezes Dan’s shoulder. “I can see this has all rather upset you,” he says, voice softer now, brushing Dan’s eardrums like wisps of cotton. His hand slides, firm and gelatinous, down Dan’s arm, coming to rest at his elbow. Dan looks down at it, bemused. “It’s simply dreadful, how Philip’s strung you along.” Nikolai’s thumb moves in slow circles over the spot just inside of Dan’s elbow. “I’d never have the heart to deface something so...” he’s leaning closer now, too close - oddly close. Dan cannot move, he feels as though he’s gone into shock, stunned into rigidity by the absurdity of the situation. “...pure,” Nikolai whispers, then presses his lips, gently, to Dan’s cheek. “So pretty,” he says, pressing a second kiss slightly lower. “So enticing.”  

Bile crawls up the inside of Dan’s throat, stinging and acidic; he’s about to shove Nikolai, hard, not caring that it might count as treason or whatever, when he senses another presence in the room. Over the pounding of blood in his repulsed ears, Dan hears a raised voice, and then stomping. Nikolai is wrenched away from him, and then Phil is there, inexplicable and sudden, one fist bunched in Nikolai’s high fleece collar, the other jabbing a pointed finger towards Dan.

Phil’s mouth is flapping, tongue moving, and Dan only realises belatedly that the loud, angry noise he can hear is Phil’s voice, yelling at Nikolai. 

“...think you can just go around hitting on anyone! Just because they’re too scared of you to move, does  _not_  mean they wanna fuck you, Nik,” he shouts. 

Nikolai is gazing steadily back, that piteous sympathy wiped from his face, and in its place, a look of smug indifference. “Someone’s upset I’m playing with their toy. Haven’t you ever learned to share?”

“Ugh, why are you even still here?! I spent all day signing papers to get you out of my life, so kindly fuck off,” Phil says, releasing him with a disgusted noise. He looks seconds away from wiping his hands on his jeans to clean them of cooties.

Nikolai sighs in surrender, getting to his feet. “No need to shout, darling, I was only killing time while the pilot refuels.” Phil’s teeth clamp together so hard that Dan hears a little ‘chit _’_ noise. Nikolai turns to Dan, lower lip jutting out in a mockery of his earlier expression. “Sad to say our collusion will have to be postponed, Dan. You’ll have to settle for the far substandard skills of my former spouse.” He sidles right up to Phil, who goes rigid at once, and reaches up to pinch the shell of his ear. “Here’s a tip: when you’re hitting  _just_ the right spot, he loves a nibble right here.”

Phil wrenches away from Nikolai’s touch, scowling. Nikolai laughs delightedly at this, whilst Dan finds that nauseous feeling getting worse. An awkward film coats the already tense atmosphere; of course, Nikolai picks up on it at once.

“Good God,” he cries, balking, eyes flicking between Dan and Phil, “don’t tell me you actually  _top_  in this little arrangement, Philip?”

“Would you fuck off? I’d like to get on with never seeing you again,” Phil spits, and Nikolai lets out a last trill of laughter.

“Well this  _has_  been an informative day!” he says gleefully, but he’s already flouncing towards the exit, at last. “ _Ciao_  then, darling. Lovely to get to know you a bit better, Dan.” 

He wanders through the open door, unhurried and carefree; the moment he’s out of sight, Dan’s muscles scream in relief as they release their tension. And then, Nikolai ducks his head back through the doorway, making Dan seize up so fast he wonders how he didn’t get a cramp.

“Oh!” Nikolai says, blasé, “and Phil, love, just so you know. I shall be making sure that you don’t get a  _penny_ out of me past what you’ve already been so graciously given. Hopefully next time you’ll think twice before pissing off someone who loves you so  _dearly_. Bye bye, now boys. Wish you all the happiness.”

He winks, one last enormously irritating time, and floats out of sight.

Devoid of Nikolai’s massive presence, the suite seems large, dwarfing, and brimming with residual, undirected anger. Dan turns to Phil, still stood beside the bed, staring worriedly at the doorway Nikolai had disappeared through.

“Are you okay?” Dan asks, though his voice doesn’t sound like itself.

He swallows, trying to clear his airway of the bile that surged up when Nikolai’s damp, cold lips pushed into his skin. He can still feel their imprint, and it makes him want to go into Phil’s bathroom, to slather his face with all the fancy exfoliators and toners he’s seen beside Phil’s sink, and scrub the feeling away.

Phil’s eyes swivel back to him, sharp and glinting with leftover fury. “He kissed you.”

Dan’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, I meant about the money thing, but um. Yeah. He- he did. On the cheek. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t stop him-”

Phil inches closer, then drops to his knees in front of Dan, those blue irises blazing. His hands land on Dan’s knees, gripping hard. “He  _kissed_ you,” Phil repeats, voice hard and cold. “I  _hate_  that. I hate that he got close enough to even  _try_.”

Echoing through Dan’s rapidly emptying mind are Nikolai’s poisonous words: 

_You don’t truly believe that Philip is interested in you, do you?_

“You care?” Dan asks, feeling the itch of his anxiety, and needing to obliterate the idea Nikolai planted, that Phil is just using him.

Phil’s eyes darken even further; he looks utterly incensed. “Of  _course_ I care,” he grits out, fingertips digging into Dan’s knees. “He thinks he can just take whatever he wants, like a spoiled child, doesn’t give a damn about what you might feel-”

“So,” Dan interrupts, “you’re upset because Nikolai is an entitled bitch. Because he acts without thinking, tries it on with anyone-”

Phil surges up then, climbing into Dan’s lap so quickly that it knocks the air out of Dan’s lungs. Suddenly, Phil’s fingers are combing through his hair, their foreheads touching. Dan can see eons into the future, through the black holes in the centre of Phil’s crystalline eyes.

“I’m  _upset_ ,” Phil hisses, “because he thought he could lay a finger on you - when you’re  _mine_.”

Dan chokes on something, the air maybe, but has no time to catch his breath. Whatever has been holding Phil back until this point snaps, and he tumbles forwards, lips catching Dan’s in a hard, insistent kiss.

In the distant horizons of Dan’s void-like mind, he can hear a voice telling him that this is not advisable behaviour, that there’s a reason he should resist this, but he can barely hear it, let alone remember why it’s there. His hands skim over Phil’s shoulders; as he feels the muscles shifting, lets his fingers settle into the grooves of Phil’s spine, Dan groans, letting conscious thought wash away. It feels as if it’s been days since he’s had this, when in reality it’s been less than twenty-four hours. So much has happened in such a short space of time; what he wants, what he desperately needs, is a break, to not think for a while, to focus on physicality, and heat, and that delicious, burning twist of pleasure that’s coiling in his gut.

“Show me,” Dan pleads, pulling Phil closer, “show me I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Nineteen coming Next Friday at 8pm GMT!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate Peril

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> This is the second to last chapter, meaning we are almost at the end! Thank you all for your continued patience, I am aiming to fulfil everyone's needs dw haha. I really hope it's a satisfying conclusion for everyone; think of this chapter as the final hurdle before an ending you can feel content with. 
> 
> Love to you all.
> 
> xxx

“Okay,” Phil whispers, fingers moving to Dan’s shirt buttons and making short work of opening them one by one. 

Dan is shirtless before he knows it, the air cool and pleasant against his already flushed skin. Phil’s soft hands slip over Dan’s waist, smoothing circular patterns across his ribs, then trailing through the dip between his pectoral muscles, over his stomach, his hips. 

“Stay,” Phil says, and for a wild moment he thinks Phil means something entirely different. 

And then Phil moves away, climbing off him. Anxiety slams into Dan’s chest so hard it nearly winds him; with his mind so unstable, he needs constant distraction, cannot be left alone with himself for even a second. His eyes widen, breaths quickening, steeling himself to beg Phil not to disappear on him right now lest he fall apart, but then Phil is back again, armed with a bottle of lubricant. He removes his shirt, then crawls onto the bed, pressing kisses to Dan’s shoulder as he shifts around to position himself at Dan’s back. At the press of Phil’s lips to his skin, Dan can breathe again.

“Relax,” Phil says, right into Dan’s ear; his legs come either side of Dan’s hips. He pulls Dan against him, so his back is to Phil’s chest, nestled between his strong thighs. Helpless to disobey such a seductive command, Dan’s muscles ease, and he falls against Phil readily, letting his head loll back, eyelids fluttering as Phil’s hand smooths down his bare chest. “You’re the most gorgeous thing, Dan,” Phil whispers, sounding wistful.

Dan doesn’t know how to begin accepting a compliment that absurd from someone who simply cannot truly mean it, so he stays quiet. Phil’s hands wind around his waist, then begin working open the button and zip of Dan’s jeans. Without needing to be instructed, Dan lifts his lips in time for Phil to slide his jeans down them, and the underwear too. It’s easy, like they’re in tune with one another; Dan doesn’t feel he needs to verbalise his aching, desperate desire, and Phil doesn’t seem to feel the need to make him.

Phil wraps a hand around Dan’s erection the moment he gets the chance, taking Dan’s earlobe softly between his teeth as he tugs a fist over it in lazy, gentle strokes. When his lips move to Dan’s neck, the breath catches in Dan’s chest, and he lets out a shaky gasp, instinctively pulling away from the sensation. But Phil just leans with him, kisses harder, wetter, uses more teeth, more tongue until Dan is trembling, fingers digging into the material of Phil’s trousers. He’ll have marks there, unmistakeable and deep, littered all over his neck because he bruises like a peach, but he sort of wants the marks, wants to see them and remember, to watch people blush as they catch sight. 

“Hang on,” Phil whispers, reaching for the lube.

He pours a lot into his hand - too much, probably, but Dan doesn’t think he’s paying that much attention. He rubs his hands together, letting the slippery substance work between the friction of his palms.

“What’re you doing?” Dan asks, half delirious from the heady, gauzy pleasure draping over the two of them like sheets of gossamer.

“Warming it up,” Phil replies in a ‘duh’ kind of voice.

Just to the left of Dan’s centre chest, a muscle spasms and squeezes. Phil’s being too nice again. Too considerate. It’s unbearable; he needs to chase the feeling away before it uncorks rivulets of tears from his eyes. He angles his head to find Phil’s lips; Phil kisses him at once, and Dan bites down, hard, on his lower lip. Phil makes a surprised kind of sound, twitching, but doesn’t pull away. Dan swipes a drop of blood from his lower lip with his tongue, tasting sugar-tinged rust. He feels a bit better after that.

Phil’s slick, warmed hands wrap around his erection then, and it’s perfect. The sound is indecent, all wet slapping and smacking, but Phil has one slippery fist around his balls, and the other pumping steadily over his cock, and his lips are back on Dan’s neck, and God it is truly glorious. Somehow, Phil seems to know the right pace, the right angle, the right pressure. He builds his techniques slowly, adding a new ingredient to the mix one at time, starting gentle and speeding up, until he’s sucking a painful bruise into Dan’s throat, and his hand is jerking fast and hard, making Dan’s hips buck, his hands cramp with how hard they’re squeezing Phil’s thighs.

Dan can feel his own perspiration sticking their skin together, back to chest. Just above his bum, digging into the small of his back, he can feel Phil growing harder, and pushes back against him in the hope of providing some relief. He wants to reach back and draw Phil’s cock out of the trappings of clothes that he’s for some reason still wearing, to bury it inside him somehow, but he’s too close- too far out to sea on this precarious raft, about to be engulfed by an enormous, consuming wave.

It crashes over him in a waterfall of bliss, making him writhe in Phil’s tight embrace. Phil kisses up his neck, mouths at his ear, his cheek, his jaw. He whispers into Dan’s ear as he pulls Dan over the edge of his climax; the blood pounding in his ears makes it difficult to work out what Phil’s saying, but Dan’s pretty sure he hears the word “mine”.

Despite the overwhelming euphoria that settles over him in the aftermath of his orgasm, Dan is too full of anxiety-induced animation to be still for even one second after he’s come. Instead, he swivels, getting to his knees and facing Phil, sealing their mouths together at once and pressing him backwards, until they fall to the mattress together.

Phil doesn’t protest in the slightest; he wraps arms around Dan’s shoulders, then slides a hand into his hair. Dan spends a good five minutes just kissing him, letting the flavour of Phil coat the inside of his mouth, until he can taste nothing but traces of sweet elderflower on his tongue. He pushes his hips forwards, pressing his softened cock against the steep hardness tenting Phil’s jeans, ignoring the acerbic overstimulated sensation. Phil moans into his mouth, and Dan swallows it up, rolling the sound over in his mind until he can trust he will remember it.

“Dan,” Phil groans, adorably impatient, “Dan, I’d really rather have less clothes on right now.”

It’s funny, Dan can sort of see that, but he doesn’t laugh. He’s too dazed, too introverted in his state of removed anxiety, so he breaks away from Phil’s mouth and moves his attention down to his exposed stomach and chest. Here, on the plains of Phil’s pale, lightly haired skin, Dan scatters a hundred kisses, closing his lips over Phil’s taut nipples, biting gently at pinches of skin he gathers between his teeth.

As he moves down, to the staccato rhythm of Phil’s ragged breathing, his hands fumble with the fly on Phil’s trousers. It takes far longer to get them undone than it took Phil to get his, but eventually Dan manages, and hooks his fingers into the waistband. Over the expanse of Phil’s gorgeous, lean torso, Dan locks eyes with Phil and says, “lift.”

It takes Phil a moment, but it clicks into place after a few seconds of stillness, and he lifts his hips to let Dan pull the jeans down, over his bum and thighs, then off entirely. He does the same with Phil’s underwear, swallowing a noise of pure thirst when Phil’s cock bobs free, and only just manages to restrain himself from immediately pouncing on it like some kind of dick-crazed sex addict.

Instead, he spreads Phil’s thick, muscled thighs apart - not missing the quiet ‘oh’ that falls from his mouth as he does it - and settles himself in the space between them. He wants this to feel incredible, for both of them. He wants the feeling to fling the two of them into the dark, unpredictable ether of space, where they can hurtle between the stars, hands joined, tethered to nothing but each other.

The first touch of his tongue to Phil’s cock makes Phil twitch so violently that Dan’s expectations of his stamina go way down. He wraps a hand around the base of Phil’s cock, tight and firm, using his hold to guide the head towards him, so he can drag soft, damp lips over the glans. Phil’s hips cant upwards, and he groans, fingers winding into the folds of the duvet. It’s only his second time ever doing this, but Dan guesses this means it feels okay.

He doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to tease Phil right now, so he just does what he’s been aching to do - lets the whole tip of Phil’s cock push into his open mouth, and then sinks down as far as he can. Phil’s control is unbelievable, judging by the loud moan of pleasure that escapes from his mouth, as he doesn’t move his hips an inch. His hands might be cramping however, from how tightly they grip the covers in an attempt to not thrust forwards.

Dan’s hands come either side of Phil’s hips, gently encouraging him to move, because really he’s feeling greedy, wants to know what it would feel like to have Phil push into him so deeply, to take control of this and fuck his mouth until he’s caught hold of the ecstasy he’s chasing. It takes a few pulls on Phil’s hips before he seems to understand, but eventually he twitches forwards, then lifts his hips slowly, testing the waters. Dan moans, already lost in the overwhelming hotness of Phil thrusting into him. He pulls Phil’s hips harder, fingers digging into the flesh at Phil’s bum, and he seems to get it pretty quickly.

They fall into sync as easily as breathing; Dan focuses on slackening his throat muscles as best he can, and even though his eyes water, and he can tell he’s going to be hoarse, the sensation of Phil fucking into him is indescribable. The feeling travels somewhere beyond hot, into a reserve of lewd, obscene kinkiness that he didn’t even know he had inside him.

It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, and then Phil comes with a fractured noise, pouring thick, warm liquid straight down Dan’s throat. Dan pulls back enough that he can swallow it down without choking, then sucks Phil dry until he’s pushing Dan away, pleading overstimulation.

Dan falls to the bed barely knowing which way is up, though Phil finds him somehow, draping over him like a blanket of warm muscle and sweat-soaked, elderflowery perfection. Dan lets himself be kissed everywhere Phil seems to be so desperate to kiss him, eyes shut as the second wave of euphoria crashes over him - less intense and sensual than the first, but every bit as wonderful.

“Amazing,” Phil mutters as he rolls onto his back beside Dan, hands linking loosely together, “you’re amazing.”

Dan bites his lip, and tries not to let Phil see his prickling eyes.

*

“I can’t believe I’m free,” Phil murmurs, fingers trickling over Dan’s chest. “It feels so weird. I’m finally free of him.”

Dan stares through a blur of moisture into the folds of material draping across the top of Phil’s bed, trying not to twitch. If he moves, he knows he’ll dislodge the tears that have been gathering in his eyes for the past few minutes. He hasn’t said a word since Phil came back from the bathroom with a damp, warm cloth and cleaned the evidence of their debauchery off their skin.

_Enough_ , Dan tells himself, summoning the thimbleful of strength from his pitiful internal reserve. He cannot stay here any longer, putting off the inevitable. It was already severely stupid to let what just happened happen. Sex only complicates this more, as needed as it was in the moment.

“Yep,” Dan says, then sits up so fast it gives him a mild headrush, “nothing stopping you from leaving now.” His shirt is bunched at the foot of the bed, so he reaches for it, shoving his arms through the sleeves as fast as he can. “Best leave you to pack.”

He can feel the mattress wobbling as Phil struggles upright too. “Hang on, what are you freaking out about now, and should I call for Lou to send up some Tequila Sunrises?”

Dan’s jaw clenches, fingers stumbling as he attempts to refasten his shirt buttons. “Look, I get it,” Dan says briskly, “you’re not gonna stick around. This can be, like, a last hurrah.”

Phil’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder. “What are you on about? I’m not going anywhere,” he insists, voice suddenly a lot more serious. “Well, I mean, obviously... I’ll probably have to leave the hotel at some point as I no longer have any money, but…” he trails off, and Dan just presses his lips together, focused on methodically doing up each button. “I haven’t thought it all through, honestly. But why are you even projecting that far ahead?”

“Martyn,” Dan replies, shrugging Phil’s hand off his shoulder.

He scoots to the edge of the bed, looking for his underwear, which he finds on the carpet, nestled in his jeans. He scoops them up and pulls them on in a single move, cheeks burning because he can sense Phil’s stare.

“Since when do you and my brother have deep chats?” Phil asks.

“Does it matter?” Dan asks impatiently, standing from the bed. He pulls on his jeans and begins tucking his shirt into them, only to realise that he’s buttoned it wrong. He sighs in frustration, then begins undoing his shirt again. “He’s right. You’re not going to be up here in this hotel for a second longer than you have to be. And as of about an hour ago - you don’t have to be.”

Phil shakes his head; Dan can see it out of the corner of his eye. “Even if that’s true,” Phil says in that careful, diplomatic voice Dan knows is a result of Royalty mediation training, “it’s not going to be straight away. I have nowhere to go! I literally just signed the divorce papers, I’m not about to launch myself out of the only home I’ve had for the past three years into the unknown.”

Dan sighs, having finally gotten the buttons right. He finds his socks, one by one, and pulls those on as well. “It’s not gonna be long till you make arrangements to scarper though, is it? You hate this place. You’ve never shied away from letting us all know that.”

There’s a pause; Dan hops on one foot, pulling his sock up, then straightens, having no more items of clothing left to put on. He lifts his gaze to Phil, reluctantly, and feels his heart squeeze. Phil is sat in the middle of the bed, unashamedly naked, eyes round and sad. He’s utterly stripped back, in a way that Dan might once have never believed he’d be able to see. He drags his gaze away, running a hand through his curls.

“I used to hate this place,” Phil says quietly. Dan wishes he could pretend he hadn’t heard.

“Come off it,” he replies, voice strange and thick. “You still do.”

When Phil doesn’t respond right away, Dan’s heart skips, wondering if he might be having a stronger emotional reaction than he’d anticipated. He turns back to Phil, half-daring to expect tears; instead, Phil’s eyes are fixed elsewhere, across the room.

“Is that my LV bag?” Phil asks, confused. “I’ve been looking for that.”

Dan follows his gaze, stomach flipping. The Louis Vuitton bag sits primly on the chair where he’d left it. “Yeah,” Dan replies. “That girl had it. The one with blue bits in her hair. She’s the one who’s been leaking stuff about you and me to the press. She’s a Nikolai superfan, or something.”

Phil’s eyes fix back on him, incredulous. “And you just thought to tell me this now?”

Rolling his eyes, Dan stalks across the room to grab the bag, which he then tosses to the bed so Phil can inspect it. “So sorry, was I supposed to have told you as I was choking around your cock?”

It’s a weird, rare sight to behold Phil blushing. Dan almost regrets the level of vulgarity he’d leapt to, but in the next second, as Phil carefully pulls out every item inside the bag, holding it up for close inspection, he doesn’t. 

“How’d you know it was her?”

The suspicion in Phil’s voice is probably hammed up just to irritate him, but it works. “I went to clean her room and caught her red-handed,” Dan replies through gritted teeth. “She set up a bunch of recording devices around the hotel, apparently. Luckily I’m pretty sure the only thing she got on tape was an argument I had with my mum on the phone.” 

“Recording devices?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry I made her tell me where they all are. She’s taking them down right now.” 

Phil makes a disbelieving ‘hmm’ sound that Dan could honestly deck him for. 

“Are you accusing me of-”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Phil interrupts too quickly. He zips up the bag and moves it closer to his side. “Unless you have anything you’re feeling guilty about?”

“Oh for God’s- you really think I’d go through the humiliation of whoring myself out to you just so I could make a few bucks telling the Daily Mail what size ski goggle you wear?” Dan asks, furious now.

“Calm down, I didn’t say that. But at the end of the day I don’t really know you that well, Dan-”

“You’ve had your dick inside me!” Dan protests, feeling lightheaded suddenly. “Although perhaps that hasn’t been quite doing it for you, if I were to believe your ex-husband-”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I  _am_ , so you don’t need to worry!” Dan shouts, chest puffing out. The words seem to extinguish the heat behind Phil’s glare.

His brows knit together, replaying the hurled confession. “What?”

Dan squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching. This is not how he wanted it to go. Why do all of his meaningful discussions with Phil descend into these brawls? Why does Dan get to this awful place, where he feels he has to cut Phil deeply, to avoid being wounded himself? He opens his eyes again, the moisture threatening to spill.

“I quit,” he says, not wanting to watch the impact of his statement, but unable to tear his eyes from Phil’s shocked, hurt expression. “Earlier. Talked to Mona.”

For a long moment, Phil just looks baffled. He reaches for a pillow, then brings it to cover his lap, as if his nakedness is no longer something Dan should be privy to, if he’s leaving.

“Why?” Phil asks at last.

“ _Why_?” Dan repeats with scorn. “Why am I even here in the first place?” Dan asks, feeling the weight of his rhetorical question falling on his shoulders like a load of rocks. “Like, what am I  _doing_? This is all so fucking stupid.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, so Dan sits on the chair where the Louis Vuitton bag had been, head in his hands, and lets his mouth spew the thoughts that have been whirling in his dumb brain since he got to this damned place.

“I came here to try and work out what I wanted to do with my life,” he says, miserably. “But all I’ve done is fuck about doing a mindless job for virtually no money. I broke up a marriage, I risked being ostracised by half the world for the sake of a few hookups with a guy who doesn’t even  _like_  me most of the time.”

“Dan…”

Dan lifts his head, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Don’t pander to me just ‘cause I’m crying. I cry all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

“I think… you’re acting on impulse again. Running away a second time isn’t the answer,” Phil says, infuriatingly slowly. “We should talk about this properly.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Dan asks around a snort. “In a couple of months you’ll be living in London, or Paris, or wherever. You’ll have Martyn, and new friends and freedom again. This,” Dan gestures between them, “won’t mean anything to you.”

“What makes you think you’re so expendable?”

“A lifetime of experience.”

“Dan-”

“It’s too late, Phil. It’s done. I’ve already given my notice. I’m leaving on Saturday.”

“Two days?”

For the sake of his own sanity, Dan pretends he didn’t hear the tiny splinter of sadness running through Phil’s voice. He shrugs a shoulder. “Figured I’ve wasted enough time.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing,” Phil says, though it doesn’t sound like a question. There’s a darkness to it, all the sadness suddenly ripped away. Phil throws his modesty pillow aside, finding his own underwear and pulling it on in a quick, sharp move. “Fine, then. Guess it’s all settled.”

“It is,” Dan replies; inside, his organs crumple and deflate, leaving him unable to breathe properly. “I’ve gotta go. I’m still on the clock.”

“Thanks for a last orgasm,” Phil says bitterly as Dan marches to the door. The venom in his voice makes Dan pause for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking. He hopes Phil doesn’t notice. “You too.”

*

The last few hours of his shift are, thankfully, packed with activity. Nikolai and his entourage are finally gone, but they left vast messes in their wake, from the muddy snow prints they’d trekked across the floors, to the endless coffee cups they’ve left scattered on every available surface. Louise is the one that has to wash them up of course, but Dan has to deposit them into the kitchen for her. She’s determinedly not speaking to him, presumably because Mona’s told her that he’s handed in his notice, but there’s no way to know for sure, as she won’t even meet his eye. With each load of washing up he brings her, she looks even more pissed off, which isn’t helping things.

“I know you hate me, and it’s probably justified, but can you just tell me if you’re gonna make me something for dinner or not so I don’t incur an even greater wrath by unintentionally rebuffing your offering-”

She moves back from the sink, shaking her hands of soap suds, and wordlessly goes to the microwave. She opens the door and pulls out a bowl, inside of which is a bowl of ramen. Dan’s heart sinks; just the other day he’d been spent a good ten minutes leant against the kitchen counter, lamenting how long it’s been since he tasted genuine ramen. Louise had said ‘tough shit’ because she has no clue how to make ramen, and yet here she is, handing over the most perfect bowl of noodles and broth that Dan has ever seen or smelled. She must have specifically researched how to prepare the dish, just for Dan. He feels tears welling up, and has to sort of swallow the back of his nose to stop from sobbing right in front of her.

“Th-anks,” he manages to choke out.

The catch of his voice makes her look up, and he thinks she softens just a bit, but he doesn’t stick around to force her into forgiveness she so clearly doesn’t want to give yet. Instead, he takes the bowl of ramen, hurries out of the kitchen and onto the balcony to slurp it down. The heaters aren’t on, and it’s getting dark, but Dan has a hot, salty bowl of deliciousness to keep the chill more or less at bay.

*

That night, Dan sleeps in his own bed, alone. Sleep is an interesting way to describe it, because what really happens is that he lies on his back, crying, and tries not to dwell on the hundreds of ways he’s totally fucked everything up. At around midnight, Dan is miserably scrolling through a badly loading Tumblr dashboard as a means of distraction, when a quiet, deep and floating melody begins seeping through the wall. This time, it does nothing to staunch the tears. Dan closes Tumblr, thumb hovering over his ‘messages’ icon as he listens to Mozart’s gradual, climbing crescendo. He presses the icon; his conversation with Phil is the first to pop up.

**Dan**  
Why did you start playing   
music at night?

Ten whole minutes go by without a response, so Dan locks his phone, rolls over, and listens to Mozart’s symphony play all the way through to the end. His eyes are sore from the constant stream of tears, and his hair is damp at the temples, but he’s so exhausted that he thinks he may actually be able to drift into a semblance of sleep if he tried.

Just as this thought occurs, he hears his phone buzz against the bedside table; his heart immediately skips a beat, and it takes him another minute to find the courage to retrieve it. At length, he reaches out to bring it to his face, and reads the message through a haze of moisture.

**Phil**  
I couldn’t bear to listen   
to you crying.

**Dan**  
Must’ve been pretty annoying   
for you to go to such lengths   
to drown me out for some sleep.

Dan sniffs, conscious now that it’s loud enough that Phil can probably hear him. 

**Phil  
** I sleep through anything. But  
I could tell you weren’t sleeping.   
I thought maybe it would help.

**Dan**  
Why would you care whether I  
was sleeping? You didn’t even   
know me. 

Another long pause; Dan doesn’t know what he expects Phil to say to that, really. Perhaps there is no rational explanation, but the music is incomprehensible. It’s the one thing that doesn’t fit, that makes Dan treacherously hope that beneath Phil’s desire to touch him and fuck him is genuine care. His phone buzzes. Dan holds his breath.

**Phil**  
Kinda feels like I’ve always known   
you.

Dan’s thumb presses into the ‘off’ button with such force he makes an indent in his thumb. He shoves the tip of it into his mouth, tongue sweeping over the depressed flesh, and squeezes his eyes shut until sleep, finally, engulfs him.

*

Dan’s last day is a Friday. The Fitzgeralds are gone - Mona was vague about the details of their sudden departure, but Dan told her everything about what Hannah Fitzgerald had been up to; judging from the way Mona says their name now, he imagines they are not invited back. So, the only guests are the pleasant, quiet couple Ms Stone and Ms Harris. They sit in the lounge together by the fire, or out on the balcony under one thick blanket, their hands linked in their laps, smiling serenely at one another like they’ve only just fallen in giddying love. For lack of anything much else to do, and to avoid being alone with his thoughts, Dan keeps checking up on them to see if they need drinks or extra blankets, but they just shake their heads and tell him they’re perfectly content as they are.

Around the fifth time Dan approaches them out on the balcony, hands shaky, words crashing together on their way out of his mouth, Ms Harris fixes him with a knowing smile. “Is something on your mind, dear?”

Dan swallows; he’s feeling so ridiculously fragile that even the simple question is enough to have him tearing up. He glances through the balcony windows to check Mona isn’t watching, and then sits in the spare chair at their table, spent.

“I’m just… feeling a bit emotional,” Dan confesses, aiming his words at the two women’s joined hands. “Today’s my last day.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Ms Harris replies kindly, “you’re an attentive worker.”

“They’ll miss you up here, I’m sure,” Ms Stone adds, which, of course, is the perfect thing to say to push the tears from Dan’s ducts. They spill down his cheeks, fat and unmistakable, drawing looks of concern from the ladies. “Oh dear, you poor thing.”

“Is there something else on your mind, sweetheart?”

There’s not exactly much point in pretending he’s not ferociously upset at this point, Dan supposes. And besides, he’s likely never going to see these women again. 

He takes a deep, shuddery breath in. “Just… how do you do it?” Dan asks, voice thick and strained. “How did you make it last? You look so in love, and so content- and it’s wonderful, please don’t think I’m not happy for you - but I don’t get it. Why was it so simple for you?”

Ms Harris and Ms Stone exchange a deep, loving smile, the kind that is only passed between old souls, with lifetimes of love between them. But there’s a tinge of sadness to it. Suddenly, Dan feels a strong urge to eat his own words. 

“My dear,” Ms Harris says, turning to Dan, her weathered face weary, “there is no such thing as simple.”

“We are happy,” Ms Stone says, patting Ms Harris’ hand, “but life is never as fair as we wish it to be. Annie and I only have a snatch of time.” She coughs into her other hand, deep and rumbly, from low in her chest. “I’m not expected to be around past May.”

Ms Harris’ eyes are watery, Dan notices. The sight of her unspilled tears make his own seem pathetic. Here he is snivelling about a silly argument and too many untaken paths laid out before him, when these two sweet women, so very much in love, are on the verge of being torn apart. He wishes he’d never said a damn thing.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Dan stutters, “I shouldn’t have- that’s-”

Ms Stone waves his stammering apology out of the air. “Don’t be sorry for me, love. I’ve had lots of life, and a hundred things to be grateful for.” She turns, wistfully, to stare her partner in the face. “But if I were to impart some last words of wisdom... do make sure you go after the thing you truly want. It’s my only regret.”

Ms Harris smiles, though it’s wobbly, then turns to Dan. “Mads and I were best friends all our lives. We both knew, in our hearts, it was more than that, but we never dared say. We both married to men, had children that grew up in each other’s company, and are still close today. It was only a year ago, when both our husbands had passed away, and our houses were empty of chatter, that we finally admitted our deep secret.” Ms Harris lifts Ms Stone’s arthritic, curled hand to her mouth and kisses it softly. They share another twinkling smile. “I don’t regret my marriage,” she assures Dan, “or my children. They’re gifts. But Maddie is right. If I got a do-over, I’d never hesitate. I’d tell her the second I saw her.”

“Tell me what, Ann?” Ms Stone asks around a smile, voice unmistakably teasing.

“That you are my sun, darling,” Ms Harris replies, smiling widely back. “You are my warmth, my energy, my life. I have basked in your glow from the first glimpse of your smile. I am caught in your orbit, and will be forever. I love you. And I’m a damned fool for not having told you every day.”

Two light, sparkling tears glisten on Ms Stone’s wrinkled cheeks. Her eyes stay fixed on her lover’s face. “Such a  _sap_ , isn’t she?”

Dan’s crying too, still, but he still laughs at the unexpected mockery. “You sound like someone I know,” he says.

Ms Harris turns to him; something about her calm smile is reassuring enough to lessen the urge to weep. “If you feel for your someone how I feel for mine,” she says, “then let me give you my own advice, my dear. Don’t wait.”

*

Dan hasn’t seen Phil all day, probably because he’s been avoiding the man like the plague, which is why it fills him with pure dread when he hears a knock on his door. He abandons his attempt at shoving what seems like far more clothes than he had when he arrived into his suitcase, and tries to gather himself together before answering the door.

His hand hovers on the latch for around five strong beats of his heart. He’s already rehearsing his opening line to Phil, preparing to tell him it might be best if they don’t say a thing more to one another, and then Dan’s brown eyes meet very blue ones, and his shoulders sag, and he’s suddenly so disappointed he could drown in it.

“Oh,” he says, “hey Martyn.”

“Hey, Dan.”

Dan stares into his face, noting the bump in his nose that must have been in Phil’s before Nikolai’s Royal surgeons filed it down. He sees the flecks of yellow and green in Martyn’s irises that are even more present in Phil’s. He sees the tinge of orange hair at the roots of Martyn’s scalp, and the way his mouth sets into his pale cheeks.

“Uh, can I come in?” Martyn asks, disconcerted.

Dan hesitates. “Sure.” He shouldn’t ask where Phil is. “Phil not with you?”

“No,” Martyn says, though that’s fairly obvious. “He’s… well, he’s not in a great way, actually.”

“Oh,” Dan says, then turns back to his pile of clothes. “I, um, I thought you’d gone already.”

“Nah. Thought I’d better help Phil out with next steps,” Martyn says. “God knows he’d never think about it himself.”

Dan folds a pair of jeans incredibly badly, then pushes them into the suitcase. “I think his main thought is ‘get as far away from this mountain as possible, as quickly as possible’.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you,” Martyn says. “Especially if I were you, in fact.”

Dan sighs, having had enough of attempting any neatness or organisation. He chucks the remainder of his clothes into the case and slams it shut, pressing all his weight on the lid to begin his first attempt at zipping.

“Little help?”

Martyn walks over to help, and together they hold the case closed as Dan wrestles with the zipper. “I’m getting the sense that you don’t wanna talk about Phil,” Martyn says, grunting with the exertion of holding the case closed. “All I’m saying is, maybe have a word with him before you disappear.”

Dan grits his teeth as he forces the zip. “There’s no point,” Dan huffs, “maybe he’s acting butt-hurt about me leaving now, but he just doesn’t like change. He’s not gonna give a shit about me once he’s back in reality. Like you said, people like him don’t want people like us.”

The case is so close to being shut. Just one final stretch, and it’ll be sealed completely. Dan’s jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it. “Cornelia quit being Nikolai’s assistant,” Martyn says, catching Dan off guard. He lets go of the zipper, and it shoots backwards, opening up a huge seam. “We’re, uh, kinda dating.”

Dan stops what he’s doing, straightening up. “Con… gratulations.”

Martyn gives Dan a sad smile. “Thanks. She’s gonna drive me up the fucking wall. But I’m kinda okay with it.” Dan nods, trying to summon a smile of his own, but he just can’t. “What I said before about ‘people like her’... I was wrong, Dan. I was wounded by my own experience. ‘People like her’ are just people. I guess I didn’t believe it before, but it turns out that 'people like her’ would never let something as dumb as money or status prevent them from chasing after the stuff that’s really important to them.”

“I’m not important to him,” Dan whispers, eyes smarting. “Not like you are to Cornelia.”

“How do you know?”

Dan shakes his head, lips pressing closed. He doesn’t need to spell it out for Martyn Lester, that he knows he means virtually nothing to Phil because he’s fundamentally not worth wanting. Because he’s useless, and awkward, and kind of on the stupid side. Because he makes terrible decisions and never learns from them. Because he disappoints everyone in his life, wastes people’s time, and can never get anything right.

“Promise me you won’t leave before speaking to him again,” Martyn says when Dan doesn’t respond.

Dan wants to say no, to cross his fingers behind his back like a child. But his heart does the talking for him most days, so the words are out before he can restrain them. 

“I promise.”

Moderately satisfied, Martyn nods, then turns back to Dan’s case. He pushes a palm into the centre of the lid, leaning his weight onto it, then zips it up in one easy flourish. As he turns to go, he aims a grin Dan’s way.

“I’d say goodbye, but I've got a feeling I’m gonna see you around,” Martyn says, which is really just horribly sad. “So, see you.”

“Yeah,” Dan replies, finding a half-smile somewhere inside of him to slap on for a second, “see you.”

*

Dan slips under the covers fully clothed, and shuffles up into the centre of the bed. Phil doesn’t wake up straight away, but this isn’t surprising, as Dan had spotted the sleeping pill packet with two pills missing on his bedside table. Waking him is going to be tricky, and he probably won’t be very coherent if Dan even manages. But maybe that’s a good thing.

“Phil?” Dan whispers, heart thrumming. He pushes against Phil’s bare shoulder. The older man’s eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t come round. “Phil.”

Dan kicks him in the leg, hard.

“Mrow,” Phil murmurs, opening one eye halfway. “Wha?”

Now that he’s looking at Dan, expectant and confused, Dan has no idea what to say. He settles on, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Phil is quiet. Then, “Dan?”

Wow, he’s truly out of it, Dan realises. It’s actually very sweet to behold, and Dan wishes his heart didn’t do that lame little twinging thing at the sight of Phil’s furrowed brow and tiny pout. “Did you… was there anything you wanted to tell me? Before I go.”

It’s not really fair of him to do this. Phil’s not in his right frame of mind; if he were, he’d likely chuck Dan out of his room entirely, not spew last-minute confessions. But then again, it’s not Dan’s fault he’d taken sleeping pills, and he could always feign ignorance of the fact, if Phil is angry later.

“You’re a dream,” Phil mumbles with utter conviction, eyes settling closed again. “G’night, dream Dan.”

Dan kicks him again, just as hard. He makes a noise, but doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Phil, man up and say goodbye. You’re probably never gonna see me again. Might be nice to exchange a few parting words that aren’t shouted at each other in anger.”

Phil’s lower lip juts out even further. “Wanna see you again, though.”

“Trust me, you won’t want that once you remember what actually interesting people are like.”

“You’re dumb,” Phil says, smiling faintly.

“Cheers.”

“You’re th’most interesting person ever.”

A warmth spreads through Dan’s body, but he tries to ignore it, not to let it get to his head. After all, Phil’s basically talking gibberish. It’s this thought that summons the following impulse; it surges up so suddenly that Dan doesn’t have a chance to beat it back into the shadows of his dumb brain.

“I fell in love with you, by the way.”

“Hmm,” Phil replies, snuggling deeper into his pillow. “Tha’s nice.”

Dan’s eyes prickle, and he can’t help his own watery smile. “Actually, it’s pretty shit, mate. You’re a moody asshole who only forcibly tolerates me, and who I’ll likely never see again.”

Phil’s eye opens a sliver, and Dan’s whole body goes rigid. Surely he can’t be actually comprehending any of this. “So don’t go,” he suggests, like it’s a solve-all. “Stay with me.”

Dan leans forward, right into Phil’s space, though he doesn’t quite have the emotional stamina to let their lips touch. “Give me a reason.” It’s an unfair and pointless demand, but he still makes it. “Give me a reason to stay.”

The next few minutes drop into silence. Dan kicks him again, softer this time, but Phil doesn’t move. Silently, Dan wraps an arm around Phil’s waist, and waits, reluctant to admit he’s fallen asleep. Some time later, Dan’s not sure how long exactly, he wipes his eyes on Phil’s pillow, retracts his limbs, and slithers out of the bed, into the frigid air of Phil’s bedroom, and then out into the hall.

It takes him hours, back in his own bed, without the comfort of Phil’s music, to fall asleep.

*

“Dan,” Mona calls from the top of the mezzanine stairs, “Kaspar’s here.”

The smile, which Martyn had finally managed to coax onto Dan’s face after half an hour of aiming stupid puns his way whilst he cleared away after breakfast, slips off abruptly. “Already?”

“Yep,” Mona replies curtly. “He’s got a lot to do today apparently, so you’d better hurry up.”

Dan’s cloth falls to the table. “But-” he turns to Martyn, sat at the next table over, radiating sympathy. “But I haven’t had a chance to…”

He tries to think quickly, but his brain has never been good at rising above a tortoise-pace. Early this morning, as Dan had gotten dressed in yesterday’s clothes (he’s coming to terms with the idea that he will never be the sort of person who is organised enough to leave a fresh set of travel clothes out before sealing his suitcase shut), he’d looked out of his window for a final glimpse at the first rays of milky golden sunlight filtering through mountain peaks, and seen, disappearing into a copse of trees, a small red speck.

It’s been a few hours since then, and Phil still hasn’t returned from his voyage. It’s likely that he will soon, but honestly Phil can stay out there all day on occasion. Dan had thought he wouldn’t be leaving until the evening, that he’d have a chance for one final, public and probably heartbreaking goodbye with the idiot before he gets on with a Phil-less existence.

“Had a chance to what, Dan?” Mona asks impatiently, all but tapping her kitten heel on the wood.

“Why don’t you invite Kaspar for a coffee?” Martyn suggests; in that moment, Dan wishes he’d fallen for the elder Lester instead. It probably would have made everything a hell of a lot easier.

“He’s got to get back, I’m afraid,” Mona replies, already turning away.

Dan strongly suspects this is a lie, as Kaspar would move Heaven and Earth for a minute more in Mona’s general proximity and everyone knows it. She’s just being pissy and short with Dan because she’s irritated that Dan is abandoning her with such little notice. It’s fair enough really. Dan had promised her that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere, and now he’s rushing off with barely a word of warning. Helpless, Dan watches Mona descend the stairs.

“I can text him?” Martyn offers. 

Dan casts a despondent smile his way. “Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d say if he were here. No point in making him rush back for me to stammer out a ‘smell ya later’, y’know?”

“You could tell him you’ll see him in the real world sometime,” Martyn suggests. 

“I could,” Dan replies sadly, picking up the cloth. “But we’d both know it isn’t true.”

*

“Lou,” Dan says, pushing the kitchen door open a crack, “I’m leaving now.”

She’s kneading dough, her fingers plunged into the thick, gluey mass. A smear of flour decorates her left cheek. She looks up at him, her wide eyes round and surprised. “Now?”

It’s the first word she’s spoken to him in over twenty-four hours. She’s not throwing things, either, nor does she look like she’s going to. Tentatively, he steps into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him, and nods, feeling the quiet swell of painful sadness rise in his chest.  “Kaspar’s downstairs.”

She’s already tearing up. Dan thought she might, though he hadn’t been sure, what with the tension between them lately. She shakes her fingers of the worst dough clumps and jogs over to him, slinging her arms around his shoulders. 

“You’re my favourite concierge this place has ever had,” she says into his shoulder. “But that’s not a high bar, so don’t let it get to your head.”

He giggles. Joking with Louise is like having a tremendous weight lifted from his heart, and he’s so grateful for her ability to toss aside her grudge in time to see him go. He’s not sure he could live with leaving behind a mess of  _everyone_ up here hating his guts.

“Thanks, Lou,” Dan says as Louise releases him, loading on the sincerity to a point that makes her blush.

“You… said goodbye to you-know-who?”

Dan snorts. “Have you been talking to Hannah Fitzgerald?”

“What?”

“That girl. Blue bits in her hair. She was leaking info to the papers about me and Phil because she fancied the pants off Nikolai.”

“Ah, I should’ve known,” Louise says. Dan smiles; he can tell she’s trying to keep the intrigue out of her voice, to keep focused on Dan’s departure, and she’s failing massively. “...What’s the blue-haired snitch got to do with me, exactly?”

“You refer to Phil the same way she does,” Dan explains, smirking. “’You-know-who’.”

“Huh.” Louise’s nose wrinkles. “I was going for a Voldemort reference.”

“He does have a bit of a Voldy aesthetic,” Dan agrees, thinking of pale skin and piercing eyes, then quickly thinking of anything else before it the searing pain in his chest winds him.

“If you sliced off his nose, maybe,” Louise agrees.

“He already kinda did that, y’know,” Dan says without thinking. “Royalty-funded rhinoplasty.”

Louise’s eyes bulge. “What?!”

“Shit,” Dan mutters.Talking to Louise is just too easy. “Better not tell him I told you that. S’prob’ly a Royal secret.”

“Christ,” Louise remarks, shaking her head. Then, out of nowhere, she smacks Dan in the arm, really hard. “You didn’t answer me. Have you kissed goodbye, or not?”

“Uh, not,” Dan says, rubbing his arm and taking a hasty step backwards. Perhaps he’d been too quick to conclude Louise was over her anger. “Too complicated. It’s best to just-”

“Daniel,” Louise says in her warning tone. “You are not to run off and leave that nice boy without-”

“Well, thanks for everything, Lou!” Dan shouts, already backing towards the door. “I’ll miss you. Let me know when you’re in England, yeah? We can grab a drink.”

“Daniel Howell!” Louise threatens, marching after him; Dan slips through the door quickly, bolting across the mezzanine to the lobby stairs, heart in his throat.

That was not the ideal way to leave things with Louise, but at least he’d gotten to say everything he wanted to say, really. He can text her the rest. She can’t hurt him over text. Mona is waiting by the desk for him with Kaspar, who is holding Dan’s suitcase in his arms like it's the size and weight of a teddy bear. He beams at Dan, as per usual, but his crinkly eyes are damp; looks like Dan is in for a tearful journey back down the mountain.

“Okay,” Dan says, “ready.”

He casts a final look towards the front door, half of him (okay, quite a lot more than half) silently pleading for Phil to come crashing through it, garish ski jacket and all. But the door stays firmly closed, and Dan resigns himself to the awful reality that his last memory of Phil is going to be… fuck. Him sleepily begging Dan to stay.

He feels a sudden lurch of agony so acute that it near-winds him. To hide the tears that spring fiercely into his eyes, he launches himself at Mona, wrapping her small frame in his gangly arms.

“Thanks so much for this, Mona,” he whispers. “I needed a place to breathe, and you took me in. I’ll never forget this place. I'm sorry I have to leave you all.”

Dan doesn’t expect her to return the hug, but her small hands come up to rest upon his back, firm and steady. She gives him a squeeze, then two pats, then let’s go. The flash of sparkle he sees on her face as she leans away is probably just his imagination. There’s no way she could be reduced to tears by some mediocre moron she employed for a few months to pick up the slack.

“You’re welcome, Daniel. It’s been a pleasure to have you.” Her tone is back to being brisk and professional; Dan is kind of glad, honestly. He’s not sure he can handle many more tearful partings. Even Martyn had looked a little too on the verge of breaking down when they’d said goodbye earlier. Mona catches hold of Dan’s wrist as he turns to follow Kaspar on his way to the door. “Dan,” she says quickly, like she wants to spit it out. “You’ll always have a place here.”

A slice runs through the flesh of Dan’s heart, like it’s been neatly cut with a stiletto. “Thank you,” Dan says, squeezing her hand. He turns to go before he says something sappy. She’d hate that. “Onwards, Kaspar.”

“The carriage awaits us, little Dan,” Kaspar says, choked, pulling open the door.

*  

The cable car tilting is every bit as alarming as it had been on the way up here. Dan is kind of relieved to know that despite feeling as though his brief life-interlude has changed him in many ways, he’s still his old cowardly self at his core. To combat any feelings of nausea, and also to avoid Kaspar’s teary, mournful stare, Dan gazes out of the window to survey the phenomenal landscape he’s leaving behind.

He truly hadn’t appreciated it enough, he thinks, what with being distracted by his own internal self-hatred spiral. It’s a little late to contemplate the stark, terrifying beauty of the Alps from this height, but it’s better than missing his chance altogether. Of course, that’s the moment he spots, like a ladybird traversing piles of flour, a tiny scarlet figure moving through the snow, back in the direction of the hotel he and Kaspar are moving steadily away from. In a movie, Dan might pound madly on the glass, might break right through it and plummet, only to be caught by Phil’s waiting arms.

But Phil doesn’t even look up, and Dan loses sight of him so fast it’s as if he hallucinated the splash of colour amongst so much pure white. The cable car shudders, reaching the edge of the mountain, and begins it’s slow journey down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Twenty (the final chapter!) coming next Friday at 8pm GMT!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!

**[Three Months Later]**

_‘...on Friday, Philip Lester (formerly Novokoric) spoke at the Refuge Centre for Domestic Abuse Victims, where he opened up about his own experience with emotional marital abuse. Since his scandalous divorce from Sir Nikolai Novokoric of Switzerland, Lester has become a dedicated philanthropist, using his notoriety which arose during the controversial coverage of the split to spread awareness about domestic abuse, LGBTQ+ discrimination, homelessness, poverty, and many other important global issues. This Tuesday, Lester is expected to appear at the United Nations conference to discuss Third World Poverty…’_

The folding seat beside Dan’s is wrenched down, and a young woman with badly-dyed pink hair plops into it, holding a Starbucks cup and an Urban Outfitters tote bag stuffed with books and papers. Dan lowers the lid of his laptop to shift some of his stuff out of the way of her feet.

“Is it just me or does it get more rammed in here every week?” the girl says. Dan stares at her in mild dismay; usually he projects such a cold, unfriendly aura that nobody dares sit within two seats of him. He’s seen this girl in a few classes before, but he can only barely remember her name. It’s something like Ramona, or Rowena... Or maybe it’s neither. She turns to Dan, brandishing a strong, confident smile. “I’m Roshina.”  _Ah. Neither._  “You’re Dan, right? The guy who dropped out and then... dropped in again.”

She tips her head back and cackles for a second, then begins pulling various things out of the tote bag. Dan grimaces, staring at the little cacti prints decorating the bag. What is it with hipster girls and succulents? 

Whilst he’s not thrilled that he’s apparently earned a reputation amongst the student body as the notorious failed quitter, he hasn’t the energy to challenge her on it.

“Guess so,” he replies in a mutter. 

He opens his laptop again, hoping it might signal to her that he’s busy, and not up for a conversation. Of course, every line of the article is like having someone plunge a fresh, thin needle into his chest, slowly stitching the word ‘fool’ into his skin. But his need for information about Phil is as urgent as his need for water. He can’t look away. 

“Ooh, I love that guy,” Roshina says, leaning in towards Dan to read the article as well. She leans her elbow on the back of his seat, the coffee in her hand hovering close to Dan’s nose; it’s something chai-spiced. Dan recoils as subtly as he can, pressing himself into the opposite edge of the chair. 

The article includes a photo of Phil behind a podium, his glasses on, wearing an impassioned expression, mouth open halfway through some dramatic statement or other. 

“If I were as famous as him and I’d just, like, lost my hot rich husband,” Roshina says, loudly, right into Dan’s ear, “I’d have no shame. I’d be applying to Big Brother or Love Island. Just shows there are some blokes willing to do the decent thing after all!”  

Dan cannot imagine why Roshina thinks he’d care what she might hypothetically get up to in her fantasy version of Phil’s life. He imagines Phil sneering at this girl’s audacity, saying something snippy and derisive like:  _‘And if I were as vapid as you, I’d perhaps rethink my decision to pursue a career in the legal field, as it’s highly unlikely anyone’s going to hire a solicitor with bubblegum pink hair_ _.’_ It makes Dan smile, just a bit, and then in the next second, he’s back to being a bitter old maid. 

“I wouldn’t give him too much credit,” Dan grumbles, eyes stuck to the photo of Phil, spewing some boring line about domestic abuse like he didn’t need to be practically dragged to his own divorce settlement by the cuff of his ear. “He’s probably getting a buttload for all these appearances.”

She snorts at him, rather loudly and obnoxiously considering this is, as far as Dan remembers, their first conversation. “Don’t you read Perez Hilton? He keeps zilch. All profits from his public appearances go to the charity he’s promoting at the time.”

Dan throat suddenly feels very dry.  _All profits? What’s he living on?_ He scrolls down the page a bit more; Roshina jabs at his screen suddenly with a short, green fingernail. She’s pointing to another article advertised at the side of this one, with the headline:  _‘Give and Thou Shalt Receive: Phil Lester spotted with Possible New Man’._

“Click that one!” Roshina squeals excitedly. “It was just posted!”

Dan is about to tell Roshina in a clipped, irritable tone that he would rather pick up her fluffy pen and drive it into his eye, but she’s already batting his hand away, apparently oblivious to social etiquette. He’s trapped in his seat, forced to watch as she clicks the baiting link. A photo pops up at once, taken through an open car door, of Phil crammed into the back seat with Martyn and a ‘mystery’ person. Except it’s not a mystery-person. Not to Dan, and not to the author of this article, who has, to their credit, obviously done their homework. 

Dan shifts uncomfortably as Roshina laps up the photo, eyes round and gleaming. He feels nauseous, and the smell wafting from her latte is not helping. Not that anything helps the sickness that sits at the bottom of his belly perpetually nowadays. Ever since he re-enrolled, courtesy of his doting and quietly ecstatic parents, Dan has been off food, off socialising, off anything much except sitting in his room scrolling through the endless media cycle of Phil-related articles. 

“Says here this dude used to be Nikolai’s photographer!” Roshina exclaims. Dan says nothing. He doesn’t want to entertain speculative notions that just because PJ, who used to work for Nikolai, has been papped in Phil’s proximity, that it means they’re dating. Even the idea of it has Dan gripping the hard plastic of his armrest to staunch his wave of paranoia. “PJ Ligouri is a UK-based photographer that jumped ship from Nikolai’s press team alongside his former PA Cornelia Dahlgren. The latter is currently dating Martyn Lester, Phil’s older brother. Suspicions of PJ’s involvement with the younger Lester were first aroused when he was noticed photographing Phil’s appearance at last month’s Climate Change Festival-”

Dan slams the lid of the laptop closed so suddenly that Roshina squeaks, yanking her fingers away just in time. “Battery’s low,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. He sinks down in his seat, intending to stay that way until the lecture starts, letting the white noise of Roshina’s indignant voice keep his intrusive and unpleasant thoughts of Phil and PJ, and all the things they might be doing, at bay. 

*

“Hey,” Martyn says, “it’s Corn for you. She wants a private word.”

Phil frowns, not looking up. “Tell her I’m the wrong brother to call for that sort of thing.”

“She says it’s pretty serious,” Martyn says, ignoring him. 

Phil lets out a frustrated sigh, letting the open file he’s been reading fall to the couch cushion beside him. The Red Cross have sent him a buttload of information that he needs to know inside out before his address at the United Nations conference later today. He’s been back and forth with the Red Cross for weeks through phone calls and emails trying to get up to speed, but there’s so much to know in such a short space of time. He has to look like he’s dedicated to this project, and he is, but the UN invited him last minute - he hasn’t had a lot of time to prepare. 

He’ll have even less time if Cornelia keeps pestering him about schedules and meetings or whatever this is about. Of course, despite her constant bothering, Phil would lick the soles of her comfortable-but-cool sneakers to keep her around. She’s a scarily good Press Agent, Phil has no idea how Martyn ever took her on back when they were rivals. They work much better as a team, sharing the role for Phil on a voluntary basis, whilst working a few other part-time jobs. 

“Something about a girl with blue hair?” Martyn prompts, and Phil’s heart skips. 

“Hand it over.”

“Say please to your big brother,” PJ scolds from the other end of the couch, though he doesn’t look away from his phone screen, which he’s been Skyping his girlfriend on for the past half hour. He angles the phone at Phil, pulling his headphones out of the jack; Sophie’s round, sweet face fills the screen. “Soph, tell him to use his manners. You’re a lady.”  

“Use manners,” Sophie says, then pulls up her nostrils to look like a snout. “But I’m no lady.”

Phil smiles at her, but his heart is pounding too violently to give her a proper response. He holds his hand out for the phone in Martyn’s hand instead. PJ plugs his headphones back in, voice lowering. 

“Hey, Corn,” Phil says as soon as the phone is against his ear. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Cornelia says, then clears her throat. She’s not diving straight in to whatever she has to say, so Phil immediately knows this is a sensitive topic. He stands from the uncomfortable sofa he’s sat on, moving over to the window, as far away from Martyn and PJ as he can get in this tiny room. “So, Mona Kemp just contacted me. You remember her? From The Secret of the Alps hotel.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Yes, I remember the manager of my prison cell, funnily enough.”

She clears her throat again. “Right. Yeah. Well, apparently they’ve just rented out your suite for the first time since you left.”

Phil waits, but Cornelia seems to need prompting. “Uh huh…”

“And the new guests, um, found something.”

The tiny workers controlling Phil’s brain are suddenly thrown into uproar, frantically combing through his memory for any inkling of what incriminating item he might have left in that godforsaken place. His jaw clenches so hard he can feel a twitch, but he stoically stares through the glass pane to hide his panic from the other people in the room.

“Oh?”

“It was like a… recording device?” Cornelia says, and Phil wishes he could see her in the flesh, read her expression to know how bad it is. 

Although they’re both technically in the same building, the United Nations Headquarters are impossibly huge. She’s downstairs somewhere amongst the thousands of behind-the-scenes worker bees, making arrangements with press and security for the conference. It’ll be hours before she finds her way back up to this bare, lifeless green room they’ve been given use of. 

His eyes flutter closed, picturing Dan, stood defiantly at the foot of a four-poster bed in his wrongly-buttoned shirt, his soft cheeks pink from exertion, spewing garbled information about a thieving girl with blue hair, and how she’d recorded him arguing on the phone. 

“Mona seemed to know who’d put it there somehow, I don’t know,” Cornelia continues in a harried voice. “She said it was the daughter of some family that won a holiday up there. Anyway, obviously this device is a serious breach of privacy, and I’m sure that if you wanted to press charges-”

“What’s on it?”

“Hm?”

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, conscious of saying too much in case he alerts Martyn, who is already at maximum stress level, and probably listening right behind him. The seams of Phil’s head are bursting, still crammed with straggles of information about water filtration systems and monthly overseas school supplies. He can’t take this in right now, can’t be bothered to give an annoying fangirl brat with an inflated ego the time of day. And on top of that, he cannot listen to Cornelia pretend she hasn’t already listened to that recording, whatever it is, from start to finish. 

“What’s on it, Cornelia? Don’t play dumb.”

There’s a pause; Phil looks over his shoulder and catches Martyn’s eye. He immediately tries to busy himself with meaningless tasks, neatening files and shoving PJ’s lighting equipment into the corner of the room. Phil turns back to the window, shaking his head. Martyn is just as much of a dirty snoop as his fiancé is. They’re made for each other.

At last, Cornelia speaks. She sounds like she’s moved somewhere with less people in the background. “There’s a few. They’re… mostly x-rated.”

A deep, dizzying flush sweeps down Phil’s body, and he feels his mind threatening to fold inwards on itself. Thanks to a herd of mediation and personal response trainers that Nikolai had him spend weeks with years prior, Phil is able to keep himself relatively calm. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, and stays quiet for a minute whilst he thinks of something to say that will help the situation.

“Send the recordings to me,” Phil instructs after a moment. He keeps expecting a sudden surge of anger to well up inside of him - at the blue-haired girl, at Nikolai, at Dan, at himself even - but all that floods through him is a deep, swirling melancholy, dappled with peaks of intense regret. “And for the love of God don’t show anyone else. Especially my brother.”

“Okay, boss.”

“And tell Mona thank you for… being discreet.”

He doesn’t need to check that Mona had quickly and quietly taken the recording device down with a crisp, dismissive explanation to the new guests. He also doesn’t need to check that she hadn’t listened to them herself; Mona is an honest, rule-abiding woman, and would never dream of such a thing. He should send her a fruit basket one day. ...When he can afford fruit baskets again. 

“I will,” Cornelia assures him. “What do you want to do about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The blue-haired girl. She could have really messed things up-”

“Don’t do anything,” Phil says sternly. “She wants attention. Notoriety. Don’t give her any.”

“Got it.”

“Just send me those recordings. Then get rid of any copies you or anyone else has, for God’s sake.” He hesitates. “Perv.”

She giggles. “Sounds to me like you’re the perv, mate. Not sure I’d have let someone blindfold me on the first shag, he must’ve been really into you-”

“Fuck off, Corn,” Phil says tiredly, no venom in his voice, then hangs up. 

He goes back to his case files with a weight in his chest. They’re suddenly a lot harder to take in. 

*

The bed Phil currently calls his own is far less luxurious than the one he used to sprawl out in when he was a resident of The Secret of the Alps hotel. It’s barely even a bed, really, as it pulls out from a couch, but Phil never bothers folding it away, as he’s only ever in here to sleep. Sleep is what he should be doing right now, in fact, but there’s no way he could drift off right now, not after hearing what he’s just heard.

Phil stares at the battered play button on the audio player window that’s open on his laptop, which balances on his knee. If he clicks it again, it will be the fifth time he’s heard the final recording Cornelia sent over, which is far too many times to be reasonable. She certainly hadn’t been wrong in her description of the audio. X-rated is possibly even a little demure. 

He worries his lower lip between his teeth, hand long ago having reached beneath the covers to ease some of the intense pressure between his legs. He shouldn’t click play again. The other person in this recording is long gone, and his quick exit was more than enough of a message that he doesn’t want to be found. There’s no point in torturing himself with Dan’s ghost. His... incredibly hot ghost. His fingers press more insistently against his crotch. 

Just then, an email from Cornelia pings up in the corner of Phil’s screen. He whips his hand away from his pyjama trousers, feeling very weird about doing any such thing whilst his sister-in-law-to-be is contacting him. To distract himself from the urgent pulses of arousal coming from beneath the covers, he clicks the email.

**From: Mona Kemp  
To: Cornelia Dahlgren  
  
**

**Fwd: Phil Lester**

_Dear Ms Dahlgren,_

_On my first attempt to send over the recordings, it appears the hotel’s rather dated computer system failed to include this final, rather short one. I’ve attached it in this email. Once I’ve confirmed you have received it, I shall dispose of the recordings altogether._

_Please send Mr Lester my sincerest apologies again for the atrocious breach of privacy. I no longer have his contact information, but he is welcome to get in touch with me for a formal apology, and we would be more than happy to compensate him with a free stay whenever he might choose to return._

_Sincerely,_

_Mona Kemp  
Hotel Manager of The Secret of the Alps_

Upon reading the line ‘free stay whenever he might choose to return’, Phil lets out a loud snort. Poor Mona. He’ll never tell her, but he’d have to be dragged back onto that cable car kicking and screaming. Even then, he’d probably beg Kaspar to hurl him out of it before they reached the summit. He’ll see how he feels about another trip up there in a few years, perhaps with time his stint there won’t feel as traumatising. 

He clicks the attached recording, readying himself for yet another auditory reminder of his sordid, expletive-riddled, excruciatingly hot fling with Dan. There’s a crackle as it begins playing, and Phil turns up the volume, straining to hear anything more than a few vague rustles. This doesn’t sound like the other recordings. Perhaps the device had just picked up Phil talking in his sleep or something.

And then, he hears Dan’s voice.  _“Phil?”_  It’s quiet, but clear as a bell.  _“Phil.”_

Phil sucks in a breath. It’s not that three months have wiped the memory of Dan’s voice from his mind, but when he hears it echo through his eardrums, it’s usually the words he spat in that last argument, when he’d announced he was leaving, as if Phil wouldn’t give a damn. He hasn’t thought of Dan’s softer, sweeter voice in some time. He’d forgotten how Dan could sound, at times, without the strain of lust or fury warping his vocal chords. 

Then there comes a muffled ‘thump’, followed by a grunt of pain.

 _“Wha?”_  Phil’s voice says.

Phil clicks pause and checks the timestamp for the recording. It reads 02:01am on 14th April. That’s the day Dan left. Early in the morning. How come he can’t remember this?

His heart thuds, coming to the gradual realisation that he’s listening to a conversation he’s never heard before. One he never even knew had taken place. Had Dan come to say goodbye to him after all? Has Phil been living under the impression that Dan had snubbed him, ran off without a word, when really…

Phil sits up straighter, turning the volume up to the highest level. He clicks play again. 

*

“Did you watch the stream of your fave giving his rousing speech at the UN?” Roshina asks as she settles herself into the seat beside Dan’s again.

Silently, Dan begs her to sit literally anywhere else, but her mind is apparently closed to telepathy. He wonders if she’d believe he’s suddenly been struck totally deaf. Unlikely, but it might be worth a try if it meant he didn’t have to talk about Phil again today; he’s only just stopped crying for long enough intervals to make it to class.

“Yeah, uh, think I saw some clips on Twitter,” Dan replies, aiming for the sweet spot between vague and already-up-to-speed. 

In truth, he watched it start to finish, at 1am because of the time difference, hunkered over his laptop in bed, tears streaming down his face. 

“God, wasn’t he marvellous?” she sighs, hauling a load of books and pens she won’t use out of her tote again.  _Yes, he was._  “He can hold a room for sure. I think it’s ‘cause you can tell he’s passionate about this. ” She grins at him. “Or maybe it’s because of his deep, sexy voice. D’you think?” 

Dan stares back at her, wondering if she genuinely expects him to respond with words. “Uh...” 

Luckily, she doesn’t seem too bothered about Dan agreeing. She pulls out her phone and begins cycling through her social media apps with the concentration of an atomic physicist. “Oh look,” Roshina exclaims just when Dan thought he might get a moment of peace, “our man is trending.”

Dan digs his fingernails into his palm.  _Don’t look. Just don’t look._  “Can I see?” he asks, hating himself.

She angles her phone at him. There are two hashtags pertaining to Phil. The first is #AmazingPhil. The second is #PhilsUNSpeech. Roshina clicks the first, and scrolls slowly down a timeline of people enthusing about Phil’s fiery yet intelligent speech which he gave at the United Nations headquarters yesterday afternoon, about the poverty crisis in several African countries. He seems to have really knocked it out of the park, judging by the response he’s getting. Dan drinks the raining compliments down greedily, trying to glean, selfish though it may be, what Phil’s mental state might be right now, in reaction to all the sudden attention directed his way. One particular tweet catches his attention. 

@nikolaischmikolai: saw #amazingphil at the airport after the conference! such a cool guy, didnt get a selfie cos he was in a hurry to get his flight but he signed my ticket with a Muse quote! #inspiration

Back at the airport, Dan notes. Already jet-setting off to his next glamorous public appearance. It won’t take long until people start throwing money at him for all this ‘charity work’. They’ll give him a Netflix documentary series, or a book deal, or any of the other wank that just gets handed to celebrities. 

“Lucky guy, seeing him IRL. I wonder what he’s like in person,” Roshina ponders, scrolling through more tweets. 

“An emotionally stunted, obnoxious adrenaline junkie with no filter on the silver spoon stuck in his gob,” Dan mutters, before realising he said that slightly too loud. Roshina is staring at him oddly. He shrugs, pinkening. “I imagine, anyway.”

Thankfully, before Roshina can respond, Professor Warren calls the class to attention, flicking the PowerPoint to the title page, which reads, ‘Marital Dissolution: The Litigation of Separation and Divorce’. The irony is stifling.

*

Sleep is closing in on Dan from all sides. He’s trying to resist the urge to slip into blissful unconsciousness, but Professor Warren’s baritone voice is making it so difficult to stay alert. His eyelids sag, then shut entirely. It’s just as the waves of promised unconsciousness are beginning to draw him out into that sweet, deep void that the door of the lecture hall opens with its hideous squeak. Dan frowns, inching down further in his uncomfortable chair to try and get away from the noise.

“Excuse me,” a loud, plummy voice calls, interrupting Professor Warren mid-flow. Dan frowns harder; the voice is instantly grating, as if it knows to burrow straight beneath Dan’s skin. It skims along the shores of his half-dream, splashing through the shallows in the distance, but Dan is too far out to be reached. “Is Dan Howell in this class?”

Dan’s eyes snap open.

“Young man, I am in the middle of a lecture!” Professor Warren replies in his gruff, incredulous voice, the one he uses in seminars to pick on students who haven’t done the reading. Dan’s been on the receiving end of this voice rather too often. “I must insist that you wait outside until-”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but this can’t wait,” the voice says, even louder. “Dan Howell? Dan, are you in here?”

A slight Northern tinge is detectable beneath the upper-class overtones. Chills course down Dan’s arms. This cannot be happening. He sneaks a glance at Roshina; her mouth is a round, pink circle, eyes bugged out so far it looks almost cartoonish. He looks left and right, noting that several people are also turning his way, alight with excitable intrigue. It’s no use. He’s going to have to confront this... situation. Dan sits up just enough that he can peer through the shoulders of the people in front of him, to the short flight of stairs that lead up to the lecture hall door.

It’s beyond surreal, to take in the sight of Phil, here, in this dingy light-less hall, looking exactly the same as ever, but somehow startlingly different. He feels as though the image of him has smacked sharply into the back of his head. In the next moment, Dan realises that Roshina has literally smacked him.

“You  _know_  him?!” she hisses, incensed. “Why didn’t you  _say_?”

Phil lets out a suffering sigh that makes Dan’s teeth grit together. He’s gazing out across the rows of students as if he were surveying his Kingdom. Dan hunches over, trying to hide. There must be a hundred people in here, thank heavens. Suddenly, Roshina has her green-taloned claw on his upper arm; she hauls him up with surprising strength, though he does his best to struggle free. 

“Dan,” Phil calls out a second time to the general room, ignoring the fact that Professor Warren looks to be on the verge of spontaneous combustion, “I kind of  _know_  you’re in here. Could you just… I need to talk to you.”

Dan swallows, feeling the back of his neck prickle from how many eyes are on him now. Phil isn’t wearing his glasses; perhaps he’s blinder than Dan assumed he was, as Roshina now has him in a vice grip, ensuring he stays bolt upright in the chair. 

“It’s just dawned on me who you are, young man,” Professor Warren says then, cold, “and I’m sure in your world this kind of disruptive behaviour is tolerated. But this is an academic setting, not a press interview. Please leave my lecture. You may speak with whomever you like in an hour.”

“Dan, I know you’re in love with me,” Phil says, with a sweet, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. “I think we should talk about that, maybe.”

Cheeks furiously flaming, Dan looks down at his folding desk covered in meagre study tools for some kind of murder weapon. The best he has is a laptop charger, which he might be able to fashion into some kind of lasso and choke Phil from afar if he really tried. Stifled snickers erupt behind people’s hands, and practically everyone is staring at him now. With little other option, Dan shoots to his feet, stuffing everything in his bag. He doesn’t give Phil the satisfaction of meeting his eye, but as he’s finally shut his gob, Dan reckons the dickhead has spotted him at last.

Bag slung over one shoulder, Dan forces his way past Roshina’s fishnet-wrapped knees, then past a few other amused students to the aisle. He stalks down the stairs as quickly as possible, head down. He can sense Professor Warren’s disapproving glare on him; this little stunt will not earn him any favours, and he’s already on the Prof’s list of ne’er-do-wells. Once he begins the climb of stairs towards the hall doors, Dan finally lifts his head to aim his icy expression at the infuriating human that has inexplicably decided to saunter in and humiliate Dan like no time at all has passed. The corner of Phil’s mouth is lifted just a tad. Dan had honestly forgotten, what with all the heartache, just how punchable he is.

He says nothing, just grabs Phil by the upper arm and marches him up the remainder of stairs, then through the doors. Once they’re outside the lecture hall, which opens directly onto the main outdoor campus, Dan lets go of Phil like he’s burning, and strides across the tarmac, feeling the burn of mortification stinging him from all sides. Of course it’s raining, Dan thinks as he walks, the scent of rain-soaked concrete misting the air.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps hurrying after him. “Dan, wait!”

Furious, Dan stops in his tracks and whirls around. “What are you doing here?”

Phil comes to an abrupt halt in front of him, eyes round. He blinks at Dan, mouth parted; for a moment, Dan is equally dumbstruck. Seeing him so close, after months of only glimpsing him through a screen, is disconcerting. Was he always this stunning? Did Dan really somehow grow used to the vivid, swirling blue of his eyes? 

“I… could ask you the same question,” Phil says after a while. 

The annoying non-answer immediately slaps Dan back from gooey-ville. He gives Phil a withering look. “I’m a student here.”

“Thought you dropped out.”

Dan grits his teeth again. How is it that Phil always knows to pick at the very knots Dan doesn’t want to unravel? 

“Well, I dropped in again.” He folds his arms across his chest. To his utter dismay, a smattering of the students milling around the campus plaza have begun to look up from their phones and tablets. There’s a lot of pointing and murmuring going on, presumably because ‘Amazing Phil’ has appeared out of the blue to fight with some normie. “Why’d you have to announce to the entire hall that I’m ‘in love’ with you?” Dan demands, pointedly using air quotes to convey the ridiculousness of that concept. “I have to finish out the year with the people in there.”

“Actually, you  _don’t_  have to do that.”

“Don’t start.”

“What?”

“Don’t start with the whole ‘you gave up on giving up’ thing. I know, okay? I’m back exactly where I was before we met, hating every aspect of my life. But we can’t all be famous charitable heartthrobs.”

Phil smirks, his lowered eyelashes catching tiny droplets of rain. “Heartthrob?”

“Oh my God,” Dan says, one hand coming to his damp forehead, “what do you  _want_?”

An actual crowd of people is forming around them, seemingly oblivious to the fact they’re all steadily getting soaked. Dan wants rather badly to bolt far away from this spot. But that would mean leaving Phil behind, again, and annoyed though he is, he just can’t wrench himself away a second time, not when he’s only just reappeared. Phil shifts, pulling his smart jacket tighter, eyeing the people gathering around them. Several of them have unsubtly pulled out their phones to film this exchange. 

“I had this dream,” Phil says, inexplicably.

“That’s great, Martin Luther King,” Dan says dryly, “I’m sure your doting fans would love to hear all about it, so just look into one of these nice people’s lenses and remember to speak clearly-”

“I had this dream that you crawled into bed with me,” Phil interrupts, continuing as if Dan hadn’t spoken. An eruption of titters spills from their group of onlookers; Dan has to close his eyes and breathe to stop himself from stepping forwards and kicking Phil in the kneecap. “In the middle of the night. And you asked me to give you a reason to stay with me.” 

Immediately, the backs of Dan’s eyes strain and ache, pushing tears into his ducts. He wills the rain to fall harder, to disguise his reaction in case he can’t keep the tears from spilling over. 

“And in my dream,” Phil continues, “I couldn’t think of a reason. I just thought... you must already know how much I like you. I’d told you so many times that you were constantly on my mind. I’d done stupid, reckless things to be with you for just a few hours. I’d left my husband. But there you were, in my dream, asking me for something more. I couldn’t understand what it was you wanted me to say. I didn’t have anything left. Nothing I could think of that might stop you leaving.”

The rain is soaking through Dan’s t-shirt, sticking it to his skin. He shivers, trying to let the alien words fold into his drizzled, muddy mind. 

“It’s too late for this,” Dan points out, toeing the tarmac with the tip of his trainer, watching the light grey slabs slowly pinpricking with dark circles. “And it was just a dream, like you said.”

“I’ve thought of a reason, though.”

Dan’s eyes lift. He wants to say he doesn’t care, that their brief attempt to grasp at the wisp of some connection that sparked between them was doomed from the start. The chance has passed them by - they’re no longer up a mountain with only each other for company, they’re back in the gritty rainy reality of their starkly different lives. 

But he also aches, body and soul, to know that reason. The thing Phil never said, that Dan has imagined him saying every day since. God help him, he yearns to hear it more than he yearns for oxygen in his next breath. So he says nothing, lips pressing tight. 

“I was really lonely,” Phil says, grimacing as a fat raindrop strikes his pale cheek. “I spent three years in a far off retreat nobody knew about, cut off from everything I’d known. The cold of that place, along with the isolation... I think it seeped into my bones. I just went numb. I forgot how to feel anything.”

Dan looks away, casting his gaze around the people on the periphery of this strange conversation, all of them listening intently, so ready for some dramatic story to add to their social media timeline.

“And then you came,” Phil says, apparently oblivious to the entourage. “Like you’d been flung up the mountain by mistake. You had no more clue why you were there than anyone else. And you were so…” he heaves a sigh, running fingers through damp, dark hair. “So fucking  _annoying_.”

A ripple of laughter goes up around them; Dan chokes out a cough of indignation. “Isn’t this supposed to be a reason you wanted me to stay?”

Phil smiles, showing the barest hint of teeth. “You got on every single one of my nerves. It was like you’d specifically been planted there to piss me off. Everything about you was just… so frustrating.”

Dan cocks a suggestive eyebrow, because it’s decidedly his turn to embarrass Phil after the many things he’s inferred about Dan so far. On camera. “There were occasions where Louise had to pull me aside and cool me off so I wouldn’t beat you with your ski pole. So don’t think it was one-sided.”

“But that’s just it,” Phil says, taking a teensy step closer. Dan’s backpack strap is sodden, and his face is misted with moisture, but he can’t seem to make himself move an inch, because Phil - god damn him - looks fucking incredible all wet, in a Mr Darcy-emerging-from-the-lake sort of way. “You made me feel things again. Sure, most of the feelings were anger and exasperation, but it was still better than the void that was there before.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. This is all so romantic,” Dan says scornfully; their audience titters, and Dan feels a small surge of pride that this time they’re laughing with him. “Are you getting to some kind of point?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, laughing. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

Dan snorts, turning on his heel.  _Enough._  “That’s a line from Sherlock, you dick-”

“Hey, I’m fucking about, I can do better,” Phil pleads, grabbing his arm. Dan thinks about pulling away, but he settles for just turning to glare some more, very aware of Phil’s touch, how his warm, wet fingers feel even through the soggy material of his t-shirt. “How about…” 

Phil is really close to him now, his deep thinking cutting a crease between his brows. The rain has deflated his quiff, making it stick to his forehead. Somehow, even with a makeshift emo fringe, he looks infinitely radiant. Dan imagines that in comparison, he resembles a drowned rat, his hair frizzed and unattractive, and it’s all being caught on film, which is fantastic. Phil drops his voice to a murmur, presumably so it can’t be picked up by people’s shitty phone mics. 

“Arguing with you every day, up in the heavens of fucking nowhere…” Phil shrugs, smiling. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had.”

A droplet spills from Dan’s left eye, and he wipes it away, furious with himself for allowing it to leak out. “Wow,” he chokes out. “You must have been really bored up there.”

Phil nods, eyes trained on Dan’s traitorous smile. “Is that... your way of saying you don’t hate my guts?” 

Dan feels himself tense. Phil’s hand is still on his arm, and his thumb strokes gently over the damp skin just below his sleeve. “You know I can’t provide you with, like, champagne or- or um, suites in fancy hotels or…” 

He trails off, because he’s allowed himself to look into Phil’s eyes properly for the first time; they really are so many separate shades of blue. There must be dozens of colours in their depths. He’d have a job naming them all.  

“I’ll settle for the occasional kiss between battles,” Phil replies. 

Dan splutters softly, cheeks warm against the shivering rest of his body. His eyes flit to their audience, several of whom have their hands over their hearts and mouths.

“Not here,” Dan replies, taking a hasty step backwards. “Let’s, uh,” he glances around for a break in the crowd, “let’s go somewhere… less here.”

He turns before Phil can answer, pushing through a throng of camera-faced people, letting Phil find his way to catch up. They get halfway across the campus main square before Phil says coolly, “not to ruin the theatricality of this moment, but where are we going?”

Dan looks at him, then stops in his tracks.  _Crap._  “Y-you can’t come back to mine.” He blushes, fidgeting. “I’m… living with my parents. At the moment.”

“Hmm,” Phil says, dithering. “Not ideal.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

Phil hesitates, and Dan has to prod him in his damp ribs to make him answer aloud. He sighs eventually. “Susan.”

Dan’s eyebrows shoot towards the rainclouds above them. “Your plane?”

“Yeah. S’all I’ve got to my name right now, pretty much.”

Dan nods, considering this for all of about five seconds. He can already sense that they’re beginning to be followed. Dan grabs Phil by the wrist. “She’ll do.”

*

Considering what a smooth, relaxed pilot Phil is, Dan is genuinely baffled by how terrifying he is as a driver. Phil has parked Susan on some farmland about two miles from campus; the owner of the plot had recognised Phil’s plane when he’d landed it in the local airport and practically jumped at the chance to offer him a place to stow it - presumably to earn himself some bragging rights for bestowing his hospitality on a semi-celebrity.

This suspiciously good samaritan also gave Phil use of his truck for the day, as the farm is in the middle of nowhere, and Phil needed a way to get to Dan’s university campus. The truck is an old, squeaky thing caked in mud; as far as keeping a low profile goes it does a grand job, but it doesn’t reek of safety. For most of the journey, Dan is clutching the ceiling handle, shrieking whenever another car comes the other way as Phil careers them down narrow country lanes at sixty miles per hour.

Eventually, after Dan has come worryingly close to crapping his pants, they reach the field where Phil’s plane is sat, less shiny than Dan remembers her, but just as intimidating. The rain is easing up, but it’s left the green countryside dripping and muddy; Dan is not particularly looking forward to trekking across the wet grass. 

“I’m literally never getting in a car with you again,” Dan states vehemently, legs shaking as he steps out of the truck.

“Wimp,” Phil says dismissively, slamming his door closed. The sound echoes around them, bouncing off the trees that fringe the field. “I’m just a little rusty. There’s less traffic in the sky.”

As his heart settles back into its normal rhythm, Dan shuts his own door and follows Phil across the grass to the plane. Phil presses a button as they approach and a short set of steps protrude in a neat glide from Susan’s door.

“Missed you, babe,” Phil says, hopping onto the first step before it’s completely extended.

Dan blanches, nearly slipping on a patch of wet grass. “Uh, what?”

Phil looks over his shoulder, amusement coating his expression. “I’m talking to Susan.”

“Oh. Yeah. I- I know.”

Phil laughs and ducks inside the plane. Dan looks around at the vast, endless fields that surround them, startlingly green and lush from the burst of rainfall. There’s nothing for miles aside from a tiny farmhouse in the distance; they’re alone together again. It’s a different kind of deserted expanse to the snow-covered mountains, but a familiar sense of isolation hovers in the air. 

Susan’s sleek interior has changed since Dan saw it last. For one thing, what little floor space had been at the back of the plane has been largely taken up by a pull-out bed. It’s unmade, the covers rucked and creased, which in the cramped area makes the whole place look messy. Phil shimmies around the bed to a what looks like the counter of a small bar, opening a neat pull-out contraption that reveals a sink. There’s a kettle too, which Phil holds under the faucet.

“Uh, so you live here? Permanently?”

Phil nods.

“Jesus,” Dan mutters, toeing the empty red bull can on the floor near the bed. “Quite the fall from grace. How are you coping without 24-hour maid service?”

“S’not so bad,” Phil says with no apparent hint at insincerity. He kneels on the bed and leans over to grab the red bull can, which he then throws into the bin, rather stylishly. “At least here I’m not in debt to anyone.”

“So you own the plane, then?”

Dan sits gingerly on the bed, mainly because there is nowhere else to sit apart from the two seats in the cockpit, and he can’t even look in that direction without blushing. It seems both long ago and entirely too recent that he was sat there with Phil knelt before him, high above the peaks of the Swiss mountains. He seems to remember, from his last visit, more seating in the back here, but as he studies the bed he’s perched on, he realises that this  _is_  the seating, folded out into a small double bed.

“Yeah,” Phil replies, pouring boiling water into mugs. “Nikolai let me have this and the ring.”

Dan’s eyebrows raise. “You’d think he could’ve spared a couple of… million.”

“I’m glad he didn’t, actually. It would’ve detracted from my trustworthiness, I think.”

“You mean about all the charity stuff you’re doing?”

“Exactly,” Phil affirms, lifting both mugs and carefully sitting on the bed beside Dan. He hands one over, and Dan takes it. He doesn’t particularly feel like tea, but then he is wet and slightly chilly from the rain, so it will probably help chase the cold from his bones. “So.”

“So,” Dan echoes.

They lapse into silence, blowing on their scorching drinks. Eventually, Dan abandons his, knowing it will be too hot to drink for some time. He places it carefully on the shelf beside the bed. “I need to ask you something,” Dan says.

“Yes, the theories are right, I am naturally ginger.”

“What?”

“What?”

Dan shakes his head. “Not... what I was gonna ask. It’s about that dream you mentioned.” He hesitates, heart squeezing tightly. “Did you... remember anything else about it?”  

Strangely, Phil shifts away from him. It’s a telling movement, and even though Dan’s not been around him for some time, he’s ninety percent sure that the expression Phil’s features are forming is something like ‘sheepishness’. He squints at the older man as a gut feeling blooms that he’s going to want to throttle him within the next few minutes.

Phil swallows tightly, placing his own mug on the floor. “Well. I don’t really need to, um. Remember.” 

“What d’you mean?”

Phil grimaces, seeming wary of Dan’s reaction, then reaches beneath the bed, drawing out a Macbook. “This is Martyn’s old one,” Phil says when he catches Dan’s raised eyebrow. “Nik kept mine.”

A wave of sympathy washes over Dan from head to toe, swiftly followed by a surge of anger for Nikolai Novokoric. Phil opens the Mac and clicks around a bit, then turns to Dan, clear concern dressing his face.

“So, you remember that girl? With the blue hair?”

*

Ten minutes later, Dan is sat in gobsmacked silence, his own confession of love reverberating through the air. No use denying it now. “That little fucker.”

Phil winces. “Yeah. Well, anyway, Mona and Cornelia destroyed all the copies.”

Dan’s eyes bulge. “Except this one!”

“Well yeah,” Phil says. His mouth twitches, and Dan zeroes in on it. “But… I reckon I’m allowed to have one.”

“Oh, do you?”

“It’s sweet.” Phil nudges him with his elbow. “And, y’know…”

“No, please enlighten me.”

“It’s… pretty hot.”

Dan’s frown deepens. “That’s a strange choice of adjective.”

“Well, maybe not the part where you bear your soul to me in a largely embarrassing midnight confession,” Phil says, so Dan hits him in the arm, “but the other recordings-”

“ _Other_  recordings?!”

Phil pauses, caught out. “Oh. Uh, yeah. From what I can gather the recording device began recording any time it picked up noise, so there are a few…”

He trails off, and Dan buries his face in his hands for a few seconds, then takes a deep inhale, straightening up. “Show me.”

“Not sure this is the best time-”

“Phil, that’s a recording of me doing a variety of explicit deeds. Fucking play it to me.”

Phil hesitates, scanning Dan’s face, then shrugs, pulls up a different recording, moves the play bar to the middle, and hits the space key.

“ _Kiss me,_ ” Dan’s voice says, husky and breathless. “ _Kiss me and then fuck me._ ” 

 _Regret, regret, regret-_ Dan lunges for the laptop, slamming the space bar. Unfortunately, he manages to press another key as well, and a different recording pops up. Before either he or Phil can do anything to stop it, Nikolai’s voice is pouring from the speaker.

_“...my God, don’t tell me you actually top in this-”_

Phil slams the lid of his laptop shut smartly, two pink spots appearing on his high cheeks. “I’ll delete these, I think.”

Dan’s fingers push into his temple, massaging the spot. “So good of you to hang onto them until now, you wanker.”

Silence falls, and for a moment the tension is taut to the point of being unbearable. Then, Dan hears a quiet, barely audible giggle. He looks at Phil, incredulous, and immediately upon seeing the creases of laughter around his glinting eyes, feels a swell of laughter bubbling up in his own chest. The tension snaps, and they let their streams of laughter spill out. Phil cards a hand through his hair, reaching for his tea again.

“Y’know,” Dan says, eyes glazed as he watches Phil’s plump, pink lips seal over the rim of his mug, “you’ve already lured me into your…” he gestures to the plane interior. “Den. Kind of redundant at this point to play it cool.”

Phil looks at him quizzically, sipping. “What do you mean?”

“Well, as you have clear, recorded evidence of my unfortunate attachment to you right there,” Dan says, stretching out on the bed a little more, settling into the familiar atmosphere of mildly absurd, irritation-fuelled hysteria, “and I willingly endured your death-defying driving skills, then followed you into your plane in the middle of nowhere, it might be a reasonable assumption that I’m, like,” Dan waves a hand in the air between them, “D.T.F.”

Phil chokes around a mouthful of tea. He places the mug down sharply, eyes wide. It makes Dan laugh, and he leans back onto his hands. As it turns out, having every last scrap of his dignity laid out before them both is rather empowering. He has nothing left to hide, no reason to be coy, and it’s now up to Phil whether he takes advantage or not. Dan really hasn’t anything else to lose, at this point, sad though that thought might be.

“I didn’t want to  _assume_ ,” Phil objects, scandalised, “I’m trying to be a gentleman!”

Dan nods gravely. “By playing me audio recordings of me asking you to ‘kiss and fuck me’?”

Phil’s mouth opens, as if he’s about to retort, but at the sight of Dan’s smirk, he closes it again, a laugh escaping. “If I do one of those things now, can you pretend I waited until, y’know, a respectable amount of time had passed?”

“I could pretend I had a sudden urge to shuck off my wet clothes,” Dan suggests with a hand thrown across his forehead for emphasis; he’s enjoying the unusual sensation of having the power over this situation, and as usual when he feels even a lick of power, his theatric flair rears its head. It doesn’t matter that his heart doubled in speed as soon as Phil hinted at physical contact. “And then,” Dan continues, voice as dramatic as if he were addressing a theatre-ful of patrons, “as you’re finding me a spare shirt to cover my immodesty, you can’t help your gaze lingering on my bare skin - you try to stop yourself, but your hand reaches out of its own accord to stroke across my chest - my breath hitches, and-”

Phil dives across the bed, pinning Dan to the mattress and kissing him. “Hmm,” he mumbles into the seam of Dan’s lips, “I forgot you never shut up.”

Dan’s arms come up to wind around Phil’s neck, a zing of pure joy ricocheting through his body as his familiar weight settles on top of him. 

“I haven’t forgotten that you’re ten times more tolerable to listen to when you’re naked,” Dan says, turning his head to urge Phil to kiss along his jaw. “Please comply.”

Phil chuckles, leaning up to pull his shirt off. “Better?”

A punch of air leaves Dan’s chest; his hands spread themselves over Phil’s toned stomach, re-learning the crevices either side of his belly, the smooth curvature of his hips. 

“Much.” His index fingers trace the line of hair that leads from Phil’s tummy button beneath the waistband of his trousers. He pulls at the waistband impatiently. “Even better without these though, I reckon.”

Phil sits back on his haunches, positioning himself on top of Dan’s thighs. “Yeah?” he asks, already sliding the zipper down. Dan’s cock pulses, still trapped by his jeans. Phil is putting on a show, but Dan no longer has the ability to call him out on it. His eyes won’t unstick themselves from the sight of Phil shimmying his trousers down his thighs, revealing a pair of black boxer briefs so tight that they might as well be nonexistent for all they manage to conceal. “How’s this?”

Dan shoots him what he intends to be a withering look that probably doesn’t come across very menacing. “I don’t remember you being this vocal.”

Phil smiles, using Dan’s shoulder to steady himself as he peels the trousers off entirely. “Shut me up, then.”

Not needing to be told twice, Dan grabs the backs of Phil’s thighs and manoeuvres him back until he’s sprawled on his back. He pulls off his own t-shirt, getting more impatient by the minute to entwine himself in Phil as deeply as possible; he’s been starving himself of this, for months, and now he wants to feast. As soon as he’s free of his t-shirt, Dan begins pushing his lips against the miles of bare skin covering Phil’s upper body. Phil’s breathing goes strange and stuttery, and his hand loses itself in Dan’s hair.

“Fuck,” he whispers as Dan seals his mouth over a nipple, “I’ve missed you.”

“Still talking to Susan?” Dan asks with a snort, and Phil smacks him lightly in the back of the head.

“Susan doesn’t talk back nearly as much.”

In response, Dan chooses to trail a line of kisses downwards, through the valley of Phil’s pectoral muscles, over the plane of his stomach, nipping gently at that tantalising rivulet of hair slicing through his pelvic region. When he gets to the boxer briefs, he pauses, lifting his gaze as he tucks his fingertips into the waistband.

Phil makes a sort of choking noise as their eyes meet, which is pleasant to hear. “Lift,” Dan tells him, and when his hips rise, pulls them off in a flourish. Dan had thought the thick, gorgeous shape of Phil’s cock was deeply ingrained into his memory, but even the image he’d conjured up in the dead of night, when he couldn’t stop himself from indulging in nostalgia, had been lacking in the exquisite detail of reality. He takes hold of the base in one hand, letting the warm, pulsing flesh push all thought from his mind. “I missed you too,” he says, and Phil whimpers.

Dan takes his time blowing Phil, letting him glide in and out of his mouth as he lifts his head and sinks down again and again. Phil’s body slackens, sinking into the hard mattress so totally that it’s as if he hasn’t relaxed once in all the time that’s passed since they last did this. The sensation of Phil atop Dan’s tongue is comforting in its thickness, stretching his lips wide, reminding him of how it feels to be so open. He would like for Phil to know this, wants to share the intoxicating power of utter vulnerability. He pulls off, suddenly alight with an idea, and sits up, crawling over Phil’s spread body until his face hovers above Phil’s. 

“You know what Nikolai mentioned,” Dan begins, testing the waters. 

Instantly, Phil’s hands stop wandering over his back. “Are you seriously bringing up my ex-husband right now?”

Dan chuckles, then sweeps a tongue over his lower lip, tasting Phil there, salty and sour; Phil’s eyes fall to the movement with obvious interest. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” Dan continues, determined to persevere with the thought if it could lead where he hopes it might. To soften the blow of blindsiding Phil with Nikolai’s name, Dan dots a few light kisses over his jaw. “When we… did things before. Were you just indulging me, because I suggested we try it a certain way, and it was my first time?”

Phil arches his head backwards, wordlessly encouraging Dan to move his lips to his neck. “W-what do you mean? It was always amazing with you.”

“Hmm,” Dan says, sucking gently at the spot right below Phil’s ear. “So you never wanted to do it a different way? Like…” His hand, which has been resting on Phil’s hip, trickles over his thigh, dipping into the cavern between Phil’s legs. He lets his fingers wander even lower, past the swell of his balls. He watches Phil’s face intently, trying to gauge the reaction, and presses the tip of one finger to the tight, puckered entrance at his rear. “This way?”

For the first time, Dan is able to witness the crystal blue of Phil’s irises thinning and nearly disappearing entirely, swallowed up by the black holes widening in their centres. It’s not until Dan removes his finger that Phil is able to summon a response.

“I- I don’t have much of a preference,” he whispers, stammering. “Is… is that something you’d want to try, or-”

“Phil,” Dan interrupts, feeling the smile teasing the corner of his mouth as he sees through Phil’s poor attempt at nonchalance, “do you want me to fuck you?”

Phil is quiet for a moment, but Dan holds his gaze, one eyebrow cocked, hopefully looking far more in control of himself than he feels. The elbow he’s using to hold himself up begins to tremble, threatening to give way, but he holds steady, needing to hear Phil speak the words.

Then, Phil nods, just once. “Yes.”

Dan smiles, leaning in to seal their mouths together. The eagerness with which Phil responds conveys his excitement, and Dan lets him twine their tongues together, allows Phil’s arms to draw him in around the neck. After a few minutes however, Dan’s self-control is reaching its very peak, what with Phil’s cock trapped between their bodies still, and the anticipation of what it might be like to slip inside of him lurking so tantalisingly on the horizon.

Dan unwinds himself carefully, sitting up and reaching for the button of his own jeans. “Do you have, um, stuff?”

His question prompts Phil into immediate action; he sits up, peeling himself off the bed in order to stagger over to an overhead cupboard, which he reaches up to open. Dan’s fingers stumble on the zipper of his jeans, attention ensnared by the sight of the lean, naked body in front of him, stretched out in a delicious long line of pale, pure skin, hiding terrains of thick muscle, tightened by years of diligent workouts. His cock strains against the fly of his trousers, imagining what it might be like to bury himself inside of such a temple; his fingers work frantically to open the zip. Eventually, Phil finds what he’s looking for, and throws a bottle of lube and a four condom packets onto the bed.

Dan picks a few of the foil packets up, eyebrows raised. “I’m flattered that you presume so highly of my stamina, but-”

Phil shuts him up using the method he seems to be realising is the most effective - jumping back on the bed and kissing him hard. “Thought we could take it in turns,” Phil growls into Dan’s mouth, because obviously he’s intent on driving Dan to the brink of insanity. 

A strangled noise escapes Dan’s throat, and he pushes Phil backwards until he’s astride him again, back to pulling off his jeans, which thankfully goes a lot more smoothly this time. He slides his underwear off too, then reaches for the condom packet, ten steps ahead of himself; Phil’s hand on his arm makes him pause.

“Woah, uh, it’s not my first rodeo but I’m probably gonna need a little prep before-”

“Shit,” Dan mutters, throwing the condom aside for a moment. He shakes his head, blood thrumming in his ears, and smooths his hands up Phil’s gorgeous thighs. “Sorry. Okay, what do I do?”

Phil sits up, reaching for the lube, and un-pops the cap. “Want me to do it?”

Dan snatches the bottle from him. “Fuck right off.”

He pours some of the gloop onto his fingers, remembering how, when they’d done this before, Phil had warmed the substance before letting it touch his skin. He copies the action, coating his hands with it, then looking to Phil for further instruction. Phil opens his legs wider, allowing Dan to fit himself between them.

“Have you ever done this to yourself?”

“Only since you did it to me,” Dan admits before he can stop himself.

Phil grins, unsubtly conveying his thoughts around this, and Dan only barely resists the urge to flick him in the balls. “Same thing, then,” Phil says.

“Will it hurt?”

Phil eases himself back down onto his elbows. “Doubt it,” Phil answers in a soft sigh. He lets out a little moan as Dan’s fingertips press against him. “Fuck. No, I don’t think this is gonna hurt at all.”

Dan’s fingers slide into Phil as easily as if he were pushing them into warm bread dough. The walls of hot, soft muscle close in around him, drawing each finger deeper as he adds them one at a time. Phil murmurs vaguely bossy commands, telling him to scissor and stretch, but half the words are lost to his groans of bliss, each one making Dan shudder more violently than the last.

“Ugh, Dan,” he says, voice desperate despite it seeming like barely any time has passed. He has one hand wrapped around the back of his right thigh, holding it up to allow Dan better access. Dan moves closer, brushes Phil’s hand away and lets the crook of Phil’s knee drape over his shoulder. “Fuck,” Phil mutters, but doesn’t protest. “Y-you can stop now,” he urges, but Dan keeps on, wanting to be totally sure. Phil seems so tight, so  _impossibly_  tight, and whilst it is maddening to picture thrusting inside of such tightness, the thought of hurting Phil without meaning to is terrible enough to keep Dan stretching with his fingers, just in case. He changes the angle just slightly when his wrist threatens to cramp, and Phil swears, louder than he has so far. “Fff- _uck_. Do that again.”

Dan does do it again. He does it many more times, pressing the pads of his fingers to that same spot until Phil is writhing against the covers, until his gasps sound more like gurgles, until his hands are scrabbling at Dan’s wrist to pull his fingers free.

“Fuck, Dan please, I’m ready, I’m ready,” he garbles.

For a long moment, Dan is too hypnotised by the wrecked, flushed mess that’s become of the Adonis-like man sprawled out naked before him to react. He stares at Phil’s reddened, slick lips, puffy from where he’s been biting them. 

“Dan,” Phil chokes out, desperate.

The sound of his name slaps Dan back into coherence. He pats the space around him, searching for the condom packet he’d thrown aside before. It seems to elude him for a while, but eventually he finds it, and rips the packet with his teeth. Thankfully, condoms are a part of sexual experience that he is not out of his depth with, as Beth had insisted on him using at least one, sometimes more, whenever they slept together.

He rolls it on with ease, thankful for the many opportunities he’s had to practice for this moment, and takes hold of Phil by the hips, dragging him forwards with a sharp tug, until the head of his cock is aligned with Phil’s slick opening. Phil is staring at him in amazement, and Dan doesn’t blame him - he’s exuding a confidence born purely of adrenaline, and it’s making him into someone unrecognisable, someone composed and assertive. Someone hot. 

“Ready?” he asks; his shaky voice somewhat shatters the illusion.

“God, yes,” Phil replies, apparently not noticing. 

Dan inches his hips forwards, letting the head of his cock press past the outer rim; Phil’s head tips backwards, a sigh of ecstasy spilling from his throat. His hand releases its grip on the covers, and he brings his long fingers to wrap around his cock.

Even the sight is intoxicating. Ignoring all other sensation for now, Phil looks maddeningly good this way; Dan’s hips almost lock in place, just watching him  _feel_. The thin branches of Phil’s neck bones are protruding beneath the skin, mottled from where Dan has nipped and bitten. His puffed chest is rising and falling rapidly, his shoulders trembling, misted with a sheen of rainwater and sweat. He ducks his head again, meeting Dan’s eyes, and Dan remembers he’s supposed to be moving, that he is supposed to be the one in control of this. He doesn’t feel very in control, suddenly, too shaken by the onslaught of sensation attacking from all angles.

As if he’s gleaned these concerns from Dan’s mind through osmosis, Phil says, “wait,” and Dan pauses, terrified he’s done something wrong. Phil sits up, glazed and sluggish, then pushes Dan backwards with a hand against his shoulder.

“What’s wr-”

Dan lands back on his tailbone, and suddenly Phil is astride him, piled in his lap like a huge, gorgeous, naked gift. He angles himself without needing to look, keeping his eyes locked on Dan’s the whole time, and sinks himself back down onto Dan’s cock, lips parted, eyes fluttering. A moan pours out of Dan’s throat as the unexpected bliss crashes over him, as the sensation of slick, hot, closeness grips him by the soul. He is buried inside of Phil’s pure, angelic body, as far as he can get. It’s agony, because Phil has gone still, letting himself adjust to the intrusion. Dan’s head falls against Phil’s chest, trying to keep calm when he wants so badly to shout at Phil to move even slightly, would trade everything he owns for the relief of it.

And then, miraculously, Phil does.

“Fuck,” Dan whispers, brokenly, as Phil’s hips begin rolling forwards.

His fingers dig themselves into Phil’s arms, and he buries his face deeper into Phil’s chest. Phil’s arms wind around his shoulders. He lifts his hips up until Dan almost slips out of him entirely, then spears himself back down with a shudder.

“God,  _Dan_ ,” Phil groans, speeding up the pace. He uses his grip on Dan’s shoulders to keep steady, bouncing up and down in Dan’s lap faster and faster, barely letting Dan gasp even a snatch of air. “Dan- Dan, would you touch me?”

Delirious, Dan mentally berates himself for not having the common sense to do this before now. He reaches clumsily between their bodies, barely holding himself together, and closes a fist around Phil’s cock, which is hot and rigid to the touch. He pumps his hand in time with the thrust of Phil’s hips, and in less than a minute Phil is crying out, biting down on Dan’s neck so hard that Dan wonders if he might bleed. Phil’s come splashes Dan’s chest and stomach, coating his hand, and all Dan can think is how he wishes he could taste it.

Dan doesn’t last much longer after that, as Phil doesn’t so much as stutter in his rhythm. He manages to push his hips upwards a few times, to make the most of this miraculous moment, locked together with Phil in the most intimate possible way. As the tip of his cock presses once again into that spot that makes Phil weak, Phil jerks and gasps in his arms. That’s the moment that Dan is unable to hold on any longer. He squeezes Phil’s arm, groaning into the crook of his neck as he feels his own release fill the condom, a hundred white-hot stars scorching over his skin in a brilliant, blinding shower.

For a minute after, they don’t move, draped over one another in various ways, just reorienting themselves as they float back to this dimension. Dan pushes his lips against Phil’s damp skin in a way that doesn’t feel chaste enough to be kisses. Eventually, Phil leans backwards, slowly lifting himself off Dan’s lap, letting him slip out. With a shaky, fumbling hand, Dan pulls off the condom, putting it carefully on the floor because he’s too spent to dispose of it properly just yet.

In the next moment, he feels damp fingers around his wrist, and then Dan is being pulled, until he’s flat on his back, Phil’s arm stretched out beneath his neck. They both stare at the ceiling, listening to the sound of their own gradually slowing breaths.

Dan rolls onto his side towards Phil, trailing fingers up his ribs, then into the cavern of his underarm, twisting the snatch of hair there between his fingers. He’s sweaty, and it’s still confusing to Dan that it doesn’t gross him out; instead, the musky, heavy scent of Phil’s perspiration is intoxicating, makes him want to bury his face in Phil’s shoulder and lick the moisture from his skin. So he does.

Phil turns to peer at him, amusedly. “Perv.” 

Dan smiles, not caring that it seems peculiar, because he knows Phil doesn’t really care. “Was it okay?” Dan asks, as if he isn’t fully aware of how beyond incredible the last half hour had been for both of them. 

“Amazing,” Phil replies, rolling onto his side to kiss him. 

“I don’t think I’m as good as you at… that.”

Phil’s mouth twitches, and he leans back to stare into Dan’s eyes. His pupils are returning to a more even size, though they’re still taking up most of the space in Phil’s irises. The ring of azure around them glimmers brightly.

“Wouldn’t sell yourself short, mate,” Phil says. “I had a  _very_  good time.”

Dan snorts, mostly at Phil’s use of the word ‘mate’. “So you prefer it, then? Being like… the one who… um.”

“Bottoms?”

Dan’s only response is a mortifyingly quick blush.

Phil laughs, prodding Dan’s red cheek with his finger-tip. “I mean it. I don’t have a strong preference for either way.”

“It’s just Nikolai seemed so, like, surprised when he found out-”

“Dan,” Phil says, already grimacing, “I’m only gonna address this once with you, because I don’t particularly want you thinking about this in detail, but having sex with Nikolai is a very different experience to having sex with you. And not in a good way. Could you ever imagine him being as considerate of my preferences as you’re being right now?”

Dan’s nose wrinkles. “You have a point. So… you’re good with either? Top or bottom?”

The flame in Dan’s cheeks is fanned even saying the words. “Hmm,” Phil says, then leans in to kiss Dan again, harder this time, knocking him backwards until he’s on his back again. “Think I might need a reminder of what it’s like to top again. Y’know, just so I have all the evidence before I make up my mind.”

“Jesus, you’re more of a horn-dog than I remember,” Dan laughs, though he’s already winding a leg around Phil’s to pull him closer.

*

They’ve been holed up in Phil’s tiny living space, at the back of a stationary plane, mostly naked, for almost twelve hours. They’d napped for a while, but now they’re awake, watching an episode of Parks and Recreation because Phil has never seen it and Dan simply cannot allow anyone he associates with to not get his references to the show.

Somewhere in the middle of one of Leslie’s rousing speeches, Phil’s phone beeps. It’s not the first beep they’ve both pretended not to hear, and it’s perhaps for this reason that now Phil sighs and reaches for it, his other arm around Dan’s shoulders, fingers tickling idly across his upper arm. He frowns at the many messages filling the screen, scrolling through a few, then placing the phone upside down on the bedside shelf again. The amusing dialogue of the show loses its potency; Dan waits, breath held, for the inevitable.

“I’m gonna have to get back to work soon,” Phil says, just as Dan predicted. “I kind of… ran off on Martyn and Cornelia and PJ after the UN thing.”

“I figured,” Dan says, already resigned. “It’s okay. It was, um. Good to see you, and stuff. Weird without all the snow and altitude. But good.”

“Come with me,” Phil says. From the way he has the offer so readily at hand, Dan knows he’s been holding it back for a while. He pretends he hasn’t heard, instead focusing on the screen, where Leslie has just fallen into a giant pit.  _Relatable_. Phil nudges him beneath the blanket with one foot. “Dan, did you hear me?”

Dan sighs, struggling out of Phil’s embrace. They should have talked about this sooner. Now they’re going to fight, and one of them’s going to hurt the other, and then they’ll split apart again for an indeterminably long bout of miserable, awful separation.

“I heard you.”

Dan runs a hand through his still-damp hair. They’d had showers a while ago in Phil’s tiny closet-shower. Though it would have been extremely nice to have stood beneath the spray together, there was no possible way they could both fit, so they took it in turns. Dan had gone first, and when he’d emerged, Phil had made more tea, and produced a packet of biscuits. He’d given Dan a robe - stolen from The Secret of the Alps, he noticed - for him to dry off and set him up with the laptop to watch Parks and Rec until he’d cleaned himself of the evidence of their debauchery too. It had been wholesome and unusually soft behaviour; entirely too easy to fall into, and forget that their circumstances didn’t allow for such kind, sweet interludes without a price.

“You don’t even want to be a lawyer,” Phil says, like it’s as simple as that. “Just think it over a bit more-”

“I did that,” Dan snaps, then checks himself, breathing deeply. If he can avoid getting upset and defensive, that would be ideal. “I already did the freaking out and running off to re-evaluate my choices. It didn’t work. You were there, you  _know_  it didn’t work.”

Phil shuts the laptop, cutting off the peppy American voices of the Parks and Rec cast. “What exactly didn’t work, though? What did you expect to happen up there?”

Dan laughs humourlessly, gesturing between them. “Not this.” He winces. It came out meaner than he intended it to. “I mean, obviously I’m glad I met you and we dragged each other into a destructive pattern of secretly bonking behind closed doors...”

“Heartfelt,” Phil replies; even though it’s sarcasm, Dan can tell without looking over at him that he’s smiling.

“..but, even you have to admit it probably wasn’t the smartest decision on my part. Or yours, come to that.” Dan picks at the thin, messy bedclothes, frowning. “I don’t think I’m very good at the self-reflective stuff. S’just better if I crack on, stop fantasising that there’s some dream career waiting in the wings somewhere.”

“Having a job that makes you happy isn’t a crazy fantasy, Dan,” Phil says. He makes everything sound so easy. Dan kind of misses that about him, dangerous and seductive though it is. “You could come with me. We could work it out together.”

“Come with you where?” Dan asks, turning to him incredulously. “No offence, mate, but you’ve got no more clue than I have right now. You have no money or plans, you said it yourself. It’s very admirable, all the charity stuff, but what’re you gonna do when the public grow bored of you without all the divorce drama? How are you gonna fund your humanitarian schemes?”

Phil shrugs, a composed, slightly amused smile gracing his features. He looks entirely unbothered by these questions, and Dan is suddenly so envious of his ability to shrug off anxiety that it makes a spurt of anger shoot through his chest. He rolls his eyes, throwing the covers off his legs. He’s about to get up, to find his clothes and put an end to this brief day-cation from reality, when Phil’s hand on his arm, gentle and cautious, gives him pause.

He waits, the warmth of Phil’s fingers draining the frustration from his bones, easing the tension in his body. Phil shuffles closer, hands sliding to rest on Dan’s shoulders, then rubbing gently, thumbs digging into the knots of taut muscle. It's so glorious that Dan sinks back into him, immediately slackening, his mind abruptly washed of every concern that had just been plaguing it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?” Phil murmurs into his ear.

“I get the feeling you’re about to,” Dan retorts, then feels a satisfied sigh slip out as Phil digs his clever fingers in deeper.

“I’m going to Africa,” he says in a low, soothing voice that Dan knows is probably one he’s been trained to use in stressful situations, but works so well that he can’t be bothered to protest. “There’s a cluster of villages in Kenya that need a lot of help. Installing water filtration systems, building schools, that sort of thing. That’s where I’m going next.”

“Oh. Right.” Dan’s shoulders tense up again.  _Africa. Could he be jetting off further?_  “How long f-”

“You should come with me,” Phil says for the third time. His hands become still on Dan’s shoulders. “I’m serious. We could use you out there.”

Dan rolls his eyes, though Phil is behind him and can’t see. “As convincing as that is, we both know I have the muscles of a cooked noodle, so I doubt I’d be much use to you-”

“It’s not always about physical labour,” Phil interrupts, like he’s prepared this argument months in advance. He’s too good at debating, that’s the trouble. Dan’s never stood a chance trying to last in the ring with him. “You’ve got other hugely beneficial skills, I’ve seen it myself. You can fix pretty much anything you put your mind to. That’s kind of extraordinary.”

Dan blinks, not sure how to react to the unexpected praise. “Well... I don’t know about ‘anything I put my mind to’-”

“Even so, you’d probably have a hell of a lot more clue than I would,” Phil points out, and Dan has to admit, although he’s never witnessed Phil attempt to repair or even patch up anything beyond his own fragile ego, he doubts very much that he’d be particularly skilled at it. He tries to imagine Phil with a spanner in his hand, tightening the joins in the municipal pipe under the blaring, scorching African sun. He has to hide his bubble of absurd laughter.

“I’m not a fan of the heat,” Dan protests, weakly. 

Whilst this is true, and he’d deliberately chosen the destination of his last runaway attempt to be the opposite of somewhere hot, Dan can feel his soul yearning for the adventure. For being with Phil, daily, their perpetual bickering exacerbated by the blazing sun, and then soothed by the cool night air, locked away in some dark room they’d built together, free to kiss each other’s sun-blistered skin all night long. His fingers itch for the fantasy, and he clenches them into fists, knowing he shouldn’t dare to so much as want it.

Phil places a kiss to his shoulder, then leans away. “Yeah, you’re right,” Phil says, making Dan’s heart sink. “I mean, when you’re so passionate about law, a little sunshine seems laughable doesn’t it?”

Dan rolls his eyes, but a laugh escapes anyway, so he turns to whack Phil in the arm. Phil lets him, then catches him by the wrists, holding Dan’s gaze. “I think you could be happy. I think we could make each other happy.”

One of Dan’s eyebrows arches. “I think we’d drive each other bonkers.”

Phil smiles. “Same thing, I reckon.”

Dan shakes his head, knowing in every cell of his being that this is completely mental, to abandon his life again for a man who infuriates him daily. But he also knows, perhaps even more strongly, that he’s as in love with Phil as he is exasperated with him. “If I leave again… I won’t be able to come back.”

Phil squeezes his hands around Dan’s. “No,” he agrees. “Me neither.”

Dan chews his lip, though his resistance has more or less melted away. “Are you only offering to take me with you because you feel sorry for me?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, teasingly. “I’m rescuing you from a life of paperwork and office parties.” A smile breaks across his gorgeous face, making his eyes soften, crinkle at the sides. His voice drops into its rare tone of sincerity. “Dan, I’m asking you if you’d come with me. Because I watched you attempt to ski away from me up a hill and fall straight down it, and somehow managed to fall tragically, pathetically in love with you in the same instant. I want you to come. Because don’t really fancy trying to stay away from you anymore.”

*

Dan’s not sure how it happens really. One minute, he’s in a lecture hall with the most annoying girl on the planet talking his ear off about succulents and her hot personal tutor, and the next he’s in the front seat of a fully-fuelled plane, beside a stunningly handsome philanthropist-slash-ski-enthusiast-slash-pilot, headed for a continent halfway around the world. He hasn’t told his parents where they’re going yet. Phil hasn’t told the public, or Pj or Cornelia or Martyn. It’s all a bit ‘up in the air’. They’ll tell anyone who needs to know when they land again, when the intense rays of sun are soaking into their pale skin, flooding their veins with Vitamin D.

Dan reaches across the chasm between his and Phil’s seats, letting his hand dangle invitingly until Phil notices and takes it, rolling his eyes and telling Dan he’s a “right sap”. But he threads their fingers together anyway, angling the yoke towards the sky, and Dan leans back in his chair as the clouds zoom closer, welcoming the oncoming oblivion. A wild thought swims at him from nowhere, as if it fell straight out of the Heavens: 

He’d be just fine if they never had to come down.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, there will be an epilogue. Stay tuned for updates about that!)


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